


How to Rescue Your Prince (On Dragonback)

by Paradise_Seeker



Category: Supernatural
Genre: (Or rather Norsemen), Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - How to Train Your Dragon Fusion, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Captain Dean Winchester, Dragon Riders, Dragons, M/M, Pining Castiel, Prince Castiel, Slow Build, Vikings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-08
Updated: 2015-11-09
Packaged: 2018-02-07 21:32:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 47,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1914579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paradise_Seeker/pseuds/Paradise_Seeker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel, the Crown Prince of Eden, has always had a knack for getting into trouble. But it's one thing to be pursued by angry cats and another to get kidnapped by your kingdom's sworn enemy. All because he's escaped the castle, trying to get out of an arranged marriage (and trying to get to know his people too, additionally). However, his rescue mission doesn't quite really turn out the way he imagined it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. How to Rescue Your Prince

Once, someone told Castiel that he had a type: forbidden, flirty and dangerous. Generally known to the logical part of the brain as "not-a-good-idea". Castiel had vehemently protested that it was false and pure blasphemy and he maintained his version until this day. The saddest thing, though? It was totally true.

April had seemed different from all that, at first. She was kind and nice and had a sweet smile. She offered him food and clothes and shelter for the night. He had a good meal, a hearty discussion that ultimately lead to a tumble in the sheets and it was all cosy and delightful and _nice_. That is, until the morning came and he woke up to her chopping vegetables with a mean-looking blade that resembled strongly the one his father had given him on his eighteenth birthday and that had been hidden in his bag. All his illusions of a healthy breakfast shattered when she put the gleaming knife under his throat and ordered him to stay calm unless he wanted her to cut his pretty pretty skin. Castiel had gone down without a fight.

In retrospect, he should have known that no woman would be that hasty to bring home a homeless man and much less sleep with him only one hour after that. The grime and the extra facial hair didn't hide all that well his distinctive features, it seemed. So much for his grand plan to learn how to be a good monarch if he could fall for the guile of women like that.

And now, very far from a warm bed and equally warm (and treacherous) arms, Castiel is cursing and grumbling at his own stupidity, his chains rattling in the silence of his dungeon cell – yeah, _dungeon_ – at every little movement from his hands or feet. The Crown Prince of Eden, captured by a Reaper, ha.

The air is stale and foul in the dungeon. Humid. And certainly carries all sorts of airborne diseases that should have been extinct for at least a decade but somewhat survived in here. Really, Castiel doesn't want to find out. His borrowed clothes (too large breeches and a tunic of rough-spun grey wool instead of his usual rich silk and fur tailored clothing) are wet and he feels cold but at least he's alive for now. He hasn't seen his captor yet – it's only been a few hours after all – but he has little doubt about his identity. Crowley the Imposter (the Usurper and the Treacherous were already taken) has been raiding – or rather has been trying to raid – Eden's coast for years now, always with a fool-proof plan that ultimately failed and an entire armada that always ended up reduced to burning sticks by Eden's very special air force. But this time, Crowley didn't have to raise an army to attack his sworn enemy. No, he used his wits and Castiel's stupid desire for liberty and love.

And Castiel fell right into that trap.

Maybe he's bored, maybe he's panicking, maybe it's his imagination but he gets the distinct feeling that he can hear rats screeching and hissing in the dark. He can almost _see_ their little brown legs scurrying to one side or the other of the dungeon. His skin crawls at the thought of them near him. He can't sleep or they'll try to bite him. He buries his head between his knees and arms and sings softly to himself a popular ballad (about love, what else) with half the lyrics forgotten. Outside, his guard bangs on his door, telling him to shut up. Castiel clams up and remains silent, watching sullenly the earthy ground. He's already tried digging up a passage. His hands still throb painfully, hours after and he doesn't want to look at his fingernails. He fears they might be covered in blood.

This journey isn't nearly as glamorous as he thought it would be, when he had drafted his plan.

Everything had begun because the Crown Prince had gotten into his head that he wanted to see the world. Go beyond Eden's fortified walls and discover his kingdom. Make himself pass for a poor unfortunate soul so he could travel the realm and gauge the true opinion of the people on his father's reign. His journey had amounted to ten full days of quickly disappearing money, muddy roads, sore feet and empty stomach...only to result in a very profound disappointment. In the stories, the Prince always perfectly blended in, accepted without question by the common folk and learned in no time all his people's grudges so he could become a better monarch. In the stories, the people _always_ had something to hold against the ruling king. May it be the bad weather, a pirate invasion, a flood, an unfortunate lightening strike or moody cows.

It appeared that Eden was the exception. Which, given Castiel's luck, really shouldn't have surprised him. Everyone seemed to love King Charles and all his family. (Except maybe for his uncle Raphael. But Raphael was bloodthirsty and a traditionalist and Castiel didn't like him all that much so, really, he could relate.) Wherever he went, he only heard praises about the king's pacific reign and the (surprisingly) lasting truce it had with the realm of Queen Eve, at the west of Eden. They all talked about the good farming years, the very light taxes and the high number of newborn babies (how his father could be responsible for _that_ , Castiel didn't know). Everywhere, only cheers and thankfulness for Charles the Beloved.

So here he was, playing at the Prince and the Pauper without a double (there had been that Jimmy guy but he didn't want to believe him and play prince at court, talk about his luck) and stuck in an cold and dark dungeon cell, dirty, tired and alone. Deprived of the liberty he had sought and the free love he desperately wanted and escaped for.

Because Castiel was the Crown Prince and nearing twenty-seven and was still single and it just _wouldn't do_ so King Charles had tried to pick Castiel's interest with parading all eligible candidates for marriage in front of his first-born. Unfortunately, none of the pale pretty eyelashes-batting princesses, duchesses, marquises, ladies and dames really caught his attention. None screamed Castiel's type. And he was so bored at the dinner table, trying to entertain a girl he certainly didn't want to marry while trying at the same time to kindly reject her advances. His father, always so soft spoken and shy had been glaring more and more at him, mouthing "twenty-seven" every time Castiel would only glance in his father's direction.

(Why his father didn't have him betrothed at a very young age like every child of noble birth, Castiel wouldn't know. Something about free will and finding love, perhaps.)

Castiel was doomed. And honestly, was it his fault if courtly matters didn't really sit well with him? Was it really his fault if he didn't want a talking doll for a wife? A boring life? Two point five heirs?

He wanted adventure! Romance! Risks! A extraordinary rescue! And yes, that sounded exactly like a lady longing for her knight in shining armour but Castiel didn't care. He would take the knight in shining armour any day if it would help him escape the clutches of a proper marriage and a very cold marital bed.

Plus, the knight would probably be more his type than the lady.

His head hit the stony wall behind him as he closed his eyes to reminisce his latest folly, a small smile already forming on his lips without him realising it. Tuning out the reality, he returned to his sweet memories.

Oh, Balthazar certainly hadn't been a knight in shining armour, far from it. He had been a dashing pirate in flashy colours and ostentatious jewels. The man had been ridiculous, promiscuous and scandalous. And Castiel had loved it. Of course, he had less love for the man's ship (nay, his proud _vessel_ , the _Cupid_...and really, who names a boat _Cupid_ anyway?), the stale sea biscuits and the pirate's entourage. That the captain had very clearly laid claim on Castiel's ass (his words) on the very first minute the Prince spent on board had helped matters because Castiel had quite frankly been a little afraid of all the leering and had tried very hard to not just cover his partial nudity with the nearest fishing net (like a fishing net could cover _anything_ ). Oh, yes, because, detail, Castiel had been kidnapped by a pirate ship and most of his clothes had been torn in the process.

Being the heir to a powerful kingdom tended to mean being the subject of endless kidnapping attempts, yes. This one was the sixteenth attempt and the fourth that was successful.

The very first serious attempt happened when he was just thirteen years old and a man in his people's regard. Be as it may, it was on his very birthday that the kidnapping happened.

The girl's name was Meg and she was passing off as a servant girl. She had none of April's apparent sweetness. She was brash, had no respect for his position as Crown Prince, was vulgar and flirty as _Hell_. She was Castiel's first love and first kiss. He had loved her dark hair, her smirking lips, her sinful tongue. Blinded by love, he had followed her like a puppy and was only found in extremis by his uncle Raphael, ready to be shipped to Crowley on a seedy boat.

Castiel really had something for boats and pirates, it seemed.

His father had been thoroughly displeased with Meg's attempt, but nothing could have been worse than his reaction to Balthazar. By then, Castiel had been living with the pirate on a very peculiar version of a honeymoon for three weeks. The Prince had long accepted that he liked both men and women, but apparently, his father wasn't so fond of Castiel's definition of free love. "You can screw half the kingdom for all I care, but you need an heir for God's sake!" he had said. And it must have been pretty serious, because his father had never cursed or blasphemed for as long as Castiel could remember.

After that, King Charles had put his mind to finding the ideal wife for his son, which had ultimately resulted in his son fleeing the castle, wandering the roads and being kidnapped. So much for the "you must find a wife" lesson.

Oh, clearly, Castiel could keep his love for men too (his father was very lenient and open like that), on the condition that he kept it silent and unseen. He could even have tons of concubines and lovers for all his father cared. But if Castiel was anything, it was loyal. If he was to take a spouse, it would of his own choosing and he would only be faithful to them.

Sue him for being romantic.

A loud bang on his door tears him out of his reverie. His guard shouts "dinner!" before raising up a little window at the bottom of his door, blinding Castiel momentarily, and literally launching his food tray towards him. More than half of his "dinner" spills on the ground floor; maybe on purpose. Castiel looks at it suspiciously, once his eyes have accustomed to the light. He wouldn't put poisoning past Crowley's methods. So, resolutely, he stays firmly in place, ignoring his meal completely. His guard snorts but doesn't say anything.

Only a few seconds after the door is closed, extinguishing the little bit of light with it, Castiel hears the sound of dozens of hungry mouths hurrying to the spilled gruel. The shrieks and squeaks resonate between the walls, making his hair stand on end, making him feel sick. He curls on himself, trying to protect himself.

Closing his eyes, he prays for sleep and help.

 

***

 

Two days and two nights pass. There is no window in his dungeon cell so he can't be sure of what time it is. But he estimates it from the food trays he receives on a six hours pattern, he believes. Breakfast, lunch and supper is gruel. He doesn't receive any water and his tongue is parched. Still no sign of Crowley.

He has given up escaping on his own. Digging up proved futile and his hands are now useless. The door is too strong: solid iron, bolted from the outside, four inches thick and very painful to land onto. The guard seems to be deaf or maybe asleep (though he doubts the latter) because he never answers to Castiel's demands to negotiate with Crowley. Maybe his captor knows that Castiel has no leverage, nothing to exchange, nothing of value except his own skin. His father will want him alive, but as long as Crowley keeps him, he keeps the power over Eden. Castiel is King Charles' only son and heir. Eden's law does not allow women to rule and Anna can't be the heir in his stead. In case of King Charles and Castiel's deaths (he doesn't want to think about it but he _has_ to, he is the Crown Prince) and if his father doesn't change the law, the crown should either pass to Raphael, his sons Uriel and Virgil, Gabriel or to any son that Anna might have. Gabriel is a diplomat, has no interest in ruling the kingdom and will refuse the throne, even if it means giving it to a worse monarch. Uriel and Virgil are their father's puppets and they will do whatever Raphael tells them to do (even though Castiel still prefers Uriel between the two of them). His sister is young and still unwed and Castiel has no doubt that his uncle will try to put her off the game as soon as possible by either marrying her to some distant lord (the best solution, really) or arranging an "accident" on a hunting trip or whatever. Raphael knows that Anna is not the real threat but Castiel is. Castiel is an idealist, a reformist and first and foremost, a pacifist, like his father. His uncle is an accomplished warrior and he's been trying to push his father to crush Crowley's forces for years, now. Because, if they wanted to, they could easily do so. Eden has repeatedly destroyed Crowley's ships with only a few members of their air force and Eden still has a strong navy and army. 

Crowley wouldn't stand a chance if Eden wanted to attack. And Castiel doesn't want to know what would happen if Raphael was to take the throne. The two kingdoms would probably bleed dry because his uncle does not like winning too easily. He wants a fight, a war, a bloodbath, and with their secret weapon, it would be finished all too quickly. And Raphael distrusts them wholeheartedly.

A sigh escapes his dry lips. Ruling sucks. If he could, he would make his father immortal so he would never have to take the crown.

An idiotic fantasy.

The steady rhythm of water dripping from the ceiling gets on his nerves and he tries to distract himself from the sound by tuning it out. _Outside, listen to what's outside._ Inside he can only hear rats and water drops (they taste so vile, he's never going to try to drink that ever again) and it's driving him insane. He has to think of something else, has to think of _home_. He closes his eyes, tries to relax. His cell must be near the sea. There's no maritime air to confirm his suspicion but he thinks he can hear seagulls. He can hear the lapping of waves, if he really concentrates. Today, the sounds are louder, more furious. Maybe there is a storm. Maybe this is why he still hasn't heard any yell or horn. Why there is still no boat for him.

Castiel doesn't despair. It's not his first kidnapping (he has quite some experience) but it is painful to think that this time, all of this is his fault. If he hadn't been so stubborn, so selfish, so stupid, he wouldn't be here today. Does his father even know where to search? Does he know what Castiel tried to do? If so, what if he let him, just for the sake of teaching him a lesson? What if he thought that Castiel would just come home in his own time, that he hadn't been captured?

Every new thought that crosses his mind plunges him into a deeper misery.

If he ever makes out of this alive, his father will be so disappointed in him, so furious. He put his own desires before the good of the kingdom. The very first thing his father warned him against, his very first lesson in being a Prince.

 _"Do you want Raphael to take the throne?"_ his father had asked, in one of his rare bad moods. There was no love lost between the king and his younger brother, it was known.

 _"Would it be so bad, father?"_ he had asked, young, so young. He had been seven, eight, maybe?

_"He will burn down Perdition. He will burn Eden too. Send so many innocents to the front, just for the glory of a lost empire. He will go endlessly on war to expand it. Never caring for the people or the good of the realm. Your uncle would choose blood over peace, fear over love. Don't forget Castiel, you must always think of the realm and your people first. A king is nothing without the support of his people. If your people hate you, then you are no king."_

He goes to sleep hungry and miserable. His nightmares are filled with fire, bloody corpses and his uncle's cruel smile, that night.

 

***

 

Six days.

Castiel has resolved to eat the gruel served to him daily. He half-hoped it would be poisoned but, despite its horrible taste, the mixture is perfectly edible. Castiel is persuaded that his father hates him and that his kingdom will eventually fall into the hands of his uncle. He's certain that the people of Eden will curse his name, remember him as the Prince who fled from his responsibilities just to get laid without the constraint of marriage. And it's so painfully close to the truth that he can't even bring himself to care about his life. He deserves it. Rotting in his cell, his father's hate, his name cursed for eternity...he deserves it all.

When the earth begins to tremble below him, he jumps to his feet, startled. His feverish mind thinks immediately that the Devil is so anxious to get his hands on him that he opens the gates of Hell just to welcome Castiel in his infernal realm. He can almost _sense_ it, the burning of the fires, the roars of the demons, the hisses of the damned souls...When a large snake emerges from a gigantic hole in the ground and in a ring of fire, Castiel is sure that it is Satan himself, in his serpentine disguise.

His head is astonishingly large in comparison to his slim grey-blue body and it is covered in sharp red-highlighted spikes. When the Devil opens his jaw, Castiel can see multiple rows of barbed teeth in his mouth. They rotate and there's a suffocating, scalding heat escaping from his mouth as he breaths. His dead, white, bulging eyes seem fixated on him. A low sound fills the room as the Devil breathes and poisons the air, like a whispering. It is truly a vision of Hell. It fills him with horror. Castiel trembles before the enormity of it all. He is going to Hell. His soul will be damned forever.

Before he has time to decide either to try to flee (useless) or surrender himself, the Devil speaks, with a low, commanding tone.

"Your Highness. Come with me."

At that, Castiel pauses. Would the Devil be so polite to drag him in Hell? Do human titles mean something to him? Is his soul more precious because he is a Prince? Well, there is no doubt that corrupted men of power should have a prominent place in Hell compared to normal citizens but this is still unexpected. He would have thought that the Devil would just take him and haul him into Hell kicking and screaming. But the Devil itself was an angel first so maybe he can be polite. Who knows.

Castiel wonders if he will still feel the pain in hundreds of years.

"Your Highness, please, we don't have much time."

The mouth hasn't moved. Castiel counts six rows of teeth in it. Maybe the Devil speaks in his head instead of out loud.

Castiel gulps, defeated. His feet are unsteady as he tries to force himself to go willingly to Satan.

"Alright. Take me now."

A hand appears in front of him. A black, leathery hand, that is most definitely not attached to the snake's body. Castiel steps back quickly, he wants to scream. What the Hell? What the Hell is happening?

"You have to ride with me, Your Highness. I can't carry you."

His eyes dart upward without his consent. Up, above the head of the snake is the head of a man.

Castiel falls to the ground before he has time to recover.

Hell. This is truly Hell.

The man, dark-skinned, with sharp features, insists. His charcoal eyes seem to burn with the fire around him.

"Your Highness, please."

Castiel shakes his head vehemently as a low whine escapes from his lips. No. No, no, no, no, no, he doesn't want to go to Hell, he doesn't! His fault is not worthy of that sentence, he doesn't deserve an eternity of damnation, he...

Shouts erupt behind his door. Forgetting the Devil for a few precious seconds, he turns his attention to sounds he hasn't heard for days. A thick, green gas is invading his cell, coming from under his door, slowly suffocating him. Castiel coughs and coughs until his chest hurts and his eyes sting.

Is this the promised fire and brimstone? Is Hell coming to him since he refuses to go?

(The logical part of his brain screams at him to get a grip, to stop thinking that this is Hell, to do _something useful for once like getting on that damn dragon's back!_ )

Dragon?

Castiel turns wide, teary eyes towards the supposed Devil. Which is not the Devil, he slowly realises. Even through his tears, Castiel recognises now that it is a man, on a dragon's back. A horrifying and truly hellish dragon. A dragon that is currently flapping his wings (which Castiel only notices now) to push the gas away from Castiel. He slowly feels better, breathes more easily. At least, he doesn't cough his lungs out anymore. He shakily thanks the pair.

Castiel still doesn't want to go on that thing. It will eat him alive, he's sure of it.

The man seems to grow impatient, the muscles in his jaw are twitching. His gloved hands tighten on the reins and the dragon grows agitated, his tail lashing at the walls. It does nothing to reassure Castiel.

"Fuck! No time, now." To the dragon, he says: "Vidrir, can you grab him?"

The beast screeches, which means absolutely nothing to Castiel except that this creature is dangerous and that he should stay the Hell away from it, but his rider seems to understand it. The man screams towards the door:

"Guys, plan B!"

The shouts from before only seem to get angrier, more numerous. There are new voices, new yells, now.

_"Fuck, okay! Now, Jo, hurry, the door! Now!"_

The dragonrider unceremoniously wrenches Castiel away from the door before he hears a loud hissing sound. The air trembles around the door and he can feel heat radiating from it, pouring in waves. He wipes the sweat from his brow. The heat. It's enough to burn a man to ashes.

"Stay away from the door, Your Highness!"

Castiel didn't even think of doing otherwise. He has some sense of preservation, thank you.

Outside the door, the skirmish seems to get only more chaotic. Men are yelling at each other and he can hear the characteristic song of swords swinging against each other. The gurgling sound of a man dying, choking on his own blood. The loud thump of metal and corpse falling to the floor. There is a battle outside.

_"Gabriel, the left corner, left corner!"_

Gabriel? Castiel instinctively tries to move towards the door, before the man drags him back. His cousin is here. His cousin is here! Late, belatedly late, he realises that this is the rescue he's been hoping for, waiting for. Eden's dragons are coming for him.

More clashing sounds. Followed by inhuman groans, screeches and roars. Dragons. A long string of curse words follow. Castiel wishes desperately he could see what's happening.

_"Eels! Fucking eels! Why don't we have a fucking Typhoomerang! Damn. Sam, you take charge, I'll try another way. Victor, get your ass back here, bury those damn sons of bitches before the dragons go crazy! Jo, hurry the fuck up!"_

Castiel only has time to hear the man – Victor, he now supposes – shout back _"Alright, Captain."_ before he disappears, his dragon plunging and digging the earth at an astonishing speed. Soon, he can hear screams of terror quickly strangled by the promised burying. This dragon is truly a death omen.

His door, which has been slowly smelting for this whole time, red hot under the dragon's fire, is now half melted and Castiel sees a colourful dragon behind it.

The first thing that Castiel thinks when seeing it is _"it almost looks like a bird"_. Which is ridiculous, really, because birds don't have honest-to-God _spikes_ all around their head and along their tail. And they don't have a freakishly large jaw and they _don't breathe fire_. He must have been more hungry than he thought if he's beginning to consider a dragon like a beautiful tropical bird.

"Hold on, Your Grace, we're almost there!" a petite blonde woman assures him, a very concentrated look in her eyes. She's not dressed like a lady, nor like a soldier. A brown leather jerkin over a light blue tunic covers her form. Castiel can't see her legs but he doubts she's wearing a robe.

Castiel automatically nods, barely noticing her mistake in addressing him as a Duke, and stays at a safe distance from the hot white flame of the dragon. From here, he can see the fighters and the battleground. There are three dragons in the small corridor where six of Crowley's men lie, no doubt trampled by the beasts. Victor's at the back, diving up and down the ground to "bury those damn sons of bitches", Jo's (he thought it would be a guy, with that name) is melting down his door and a two-headed dragon mounted by a very tall man with long hair fights two Perditionan soldiers, one for each head. His rider swings his sword artfully at another soldier, carving up the man with a gory elegance. Not a drop of blood lands on the man.

Finally, the door is completely melted and the blue dragon croaks happily at a job well done. The woman pats the beast before she holds a hand towards him.

"Come with me, Your Grace!"

Castiel is about to grab her hand when the dragon suddenly turns its head to the left and shoots at an astounding speed spikes towards the new foot soldiers coming from another door. Jo cries in frustration before launching towards the enemies.

"Gabriel, take him and go! Sam, there's a new batch coming from here!"

And suddenly before Castiel's eyes, his cousin materialises in front of him where there was only air a second before. The red dragon he's on cocks its head at him, curious, its long antennae following the movement. Its muzzle approaches him and sniffs him a bit before he steps back, seemingly satisfied. This must be the least-threatening dragon he has seen, so far.

The short browned-hair man addresses him a toothy grin, like this is an everyday situation and not a battle at all. He ignores totally the other three dragonriders fighting behind him. He's chewing something that Castiel supposes is one of his bizarre sweets from abroad. Castiel will never understand his cousin's unhealthy love for sweets.

"Howdy, dear cousin! Ready to escape?"

Castiel has never been more glad of his cousin's bizarre greetings. If he wasn't on a dragon, Castiel would have hugged him.

"Get me out of here." he whispers, reaching out to the man who unceremoniously snatches him from the ground.

"No sooner said than done, Cassie!"

The Crown Prince of Eden could have done without that particular nickname. Though he has no real time to protest; as soon as he's on the dragon's back (he's riding a dragon! he's riding a _dragon_!), Gabriel directs his mount towards another door – probably the way they came in.

And that would have probably gone beautifully if Crowley was not just right in front of that door.

"Trying to flee, my Prince? Not satisfied about the hospitality? Maybe I should have brought dear April to your chambers." taunts the King of Perdition, an ugly smirk on his lips. Castiel scowls. The men at his side are holding eels and Gabriel's dragon recoils, hissing and protesting so violently at the hated fish's presence that Castiel wonders how they can still be on its back. (How can creatures as powerful as dragons be afraid of eels is a mystery to Castiel.) It's already backing down, heading in the direction of the other soldiers without realising it. Gabriel barks orders without any result. The dragon won't listen to anything he says.

A sudden voice pierces the air, a sense of urgency in its tone:

"Gabe, get down!"

It's nothing short of a miracle that Gabriel manages to make the dragon dip down. Barely a second after that, a long jet of green gas shoots towards Crowley and his clique. Castiel hears the distinct sound of a spark before the long line of gas get inflamed, creating a wall of flames between the dragonriders and Crowley. They have no time to rejoice, however.

There are enemies from every side, fire everywhere and Castiel can't see no escape from here. There are only four dragons and more and more soldiers are coming to the fight. The dragons' fire shots are not unlimited and soon, they will be out of fuel. Victor's dragon seems extenuated, swaying on his lower spikes, incapable of tunnelling anymore.

They are doomed. The whole rescue is a fiasco. They will never see Eden's magnificent painted walls again. Castiel will never see his sister or his father again.

He should never have disobeyed.

As the situation looks more and more desperate and the dragonriders regroup themselves in a desperate attempt to try to fight off the enemy, Castiel right in the middle of them and no longer on dragonback (two riders slow the dragon), a high-pitched sound resonates in the air, followed by a sudden and loud crack coming from his cell. An explosion of blue and white fire blinds him for a moment and he barely has time to take a look at the sleek form shooting from the mess of stones that was the dungeon's wall before claws tighten around his arm and his feet leave the ground. An undignified scream escapes his mouth as he's dragged at stunning speed from the floor and propelled into the air. Soon, there are miles and miles of sea beneath him and miles of empty air between him and the vast mass of water.

Castiel really does not want to fall.

A strong hand grips him tight and raises him from the sea of Perdition. Castiel nearly squeals when he sees a man's face, upside-down, grinning at him.

"Hi, my Prince."

Castiel is about to argue with protocol and proper addressing _("you should call me_ _ **Your Royal Highness**_ _for God's sake")_ when all his higher cognitive functions suddenly come to a screeching halt. A distant part of him recognises the voice (it was a nice voice, warm and rich and deep) as belonging to the man saying "fuck" and "fucking" a little too much, and therefore to the presumed leader of the dragonriders. Only then does Castiel think that he's suspended in the air, only staying alive because of the grip of one dragon's paw (black and scaly) and one man's hand (a very strong and beautiful hand). That part of him panics. A little.

The other part of him (the vast majority of him, in fact) only thinks _damn, those eyes_. Maybe it's because the man's face is upside-down, maybe it's because Castiel is half-delirious with fear and adrenaline, but he doesn't think he has seen such beautiful eyes before. They are of a beautiful shade of green (just this side of clear, like summer leaves) and sunlight reflects in them like flecks of gold. They're warm and teasing and inviting and Castiel could get lost in them forever. The freckles spread over the tan skin, the perfectly shaped face and the boyish grin only add to the charm, really.

Castiel doesn't think he has ever seen a more handsome man before.

Finally, a second hand joins the rescue and slips under his arm. Castiel is lifted like he weights nothing and, following a manoeuvre which he really doesn't want to ponder on, he finds himself seated behind the man and gripping with all his force the leather jerkin he wears. On instinct, Castiel buries his nose in the man's neck (it's not befitting a Prince but he's been imprisoned for six days, been on the road for ten and he craves human contact so sod off), closes his eyes and inhales deeply. The man smells of leather and sweat and freshly-cut grass. Castiel breathes in a little more deeply. It's intoxicating.

The man chuckles and turns his head towards Castiel. His heart lurches in his chest. Up close, he's even more beautiful. Castiel doesn't move away even a little when the man grins in his direction, only a few inches from his face.

"Could say I swept you off your feet, eh?"

Yes, he really could.

Castiel was so screwed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _How to Rescue Your Prince_ can easily be read even if you're not familiar with the _How to Train Your Dragon_ franchise. However, to ease your reading, here are some links to images of the dragons pictured here. Victor's dragon a [Whispering Death](http://images6.fanpop.com/image/photos/36700000/DreamWorks-Dragons-Riders-of-Berk-image-dreamworks-dragons-riders-of-berk-36747582-1149-896.png), Jo's is a [Deadly Nadder](http://img2.wikia.nocookie.net/__cb20100418084851/howtotrainyourdragon/images/e/e1/Deadly-nadder-03.png), Sam's is a [Hideous Zippleback](http://img1.wikia.nocookie.net/__cb20140305204251/howtotrainyourdragon/images/5/58/Hideous-Zippleback-zippleback01.png), Gabriel's a [Changewing](https://www.howtotrainyourdragon.com/images/uploads/dragons/_1095/changewind_gallery_3.jpg) and Dean's is a [Night Fury](http://img1.wikia.nocookie.net/__cb20130501212432/dreamworks/images/2/22/Night-Fury-how-to-train-your-dragon-19938282-998-580.jpg.jpg).
> 
> English is not my mother tongue so feel free to point any mistake you see.


	2. How to Face a King

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keeping his eyes open was hard for Castiel. They were close to the sun and that plus the wind plus the cold was really not a good combination for his sensitive eyes. But Castiel kept his eyes open. Because, foolishly, stupidly, he didn't want to appear weak in front of the man who had rescued him and whose name he didn't even know. The man, who was a solid wall of warmth and security against his chest. Castiel definitely didn't want to let that go.

Keeping his eyes open was hard for Castiel.

First, there was the wind. Flying on a dragon was far far far quicker than riding a horse and such speed was making him nauseous. Thankfully, the captain had seemed to notice Castiel's unease and the dragon was flying at a lower speed than at the beginning. Still, for the life of him, Castiel couldn't let go of the man's jerkin. He feared he might be blown by the wind otherwise.

Second, there was the cold. The air was colder, wetter near the clouds (dark and heavy with rain) and the wind was biting his skin. His eyes stung and survival instinct was screaming at him to close them else they might suffer immensely. They were close to the sun and that plus the wind plus the cold was really not a good combination for his sensitive eyes.

Third, there was the sea. They were flying _high_ , far above the altitude of the highest tower of the royal castle. And Castiel could only think that a fall from that height would kill him instantly. At such height and speed, he was doomed to drop dead in the sea. If he didn't have a heart attack during the fall. Just seeing the vast stretch of deep blue beneath him gave him near panic attacks. 

But Castiel kept his eyes open. Because, foolishly, stupidly, he didn't want to appear weak in front of the man who had rescued him and whose name he didn't even know. The man, who was a solid wall of _warmth_ and _security_ against his chest. Castiel definitely didn't want to let that go. Shamelessly, the Prince leeched the man's heat, taking it into him, absorbing it to dispel the cold he felt in the wind. He certainly wouldn't have anymore occasion in the future, or at least, (hopefully) not for quite some time. He was a romantic, yes, an idealist too, but he was not a fool. 

Breaking the silence that had been weighting on them until then, Castiel had to try twice before the man could finally hear him. Bloody wind.

"Hm, I...I should thank you, Sir."

The answer was muffled by the wind but Castiel could have sworn he heard a snort. Or felt. Whatever.

"It's my job. And I'm not a knight, my Prince. Just a normal man."

Castiel didn't like the quick dismissal of what he'd done like it was an everyday task. Castiel owed him his _life_ , was it nothing for him? He was sure that the man, handsome as he was, would have jumped at the opportunity to have a woman owing him her life. A Prince, though? He didn't seem to care at all. Castiel was profoundly vexed. Acting like a petulant child, he didn't even reflect on the fact that it was _indeed_ the man's job. It was like thanking a baker for every loaf of bread that came out of the oven or a fisherman for every fish on the market. Kings and Princes didn't do that, it was ridiculous. But Castiel couldn't help but think that the people of Eden should receive more gratitude for what they did. They could hate him, and his father. The _man_ could hate him and Castiel wouldn't even know. Somehow, that thought made his stomach twist in uncomfortable knots. 

He didn't even bother correcting him on his cavalier form of address. A dark, guilty, selfish part of him loved hearing _my Prince_ in the man's mouth. That way, he could fantasise it was an affectionate term instead of mistaken courtesy title. 

He was so far gone already.

"A normal man wouldn't be on the back of a dragon." Castiel countered, logically.

The laugh was more evident this time and it resonated pleasantly against his chest. Castiel loved the man's laugh, the way his whole body was into it. Sincere. Unrestrained.

"Yeah, well. A dragonrider, then." The man admitted gracefully. "But not a knight. Please don't call me Captain, I hate that word."

Hate? Castiel was slightly alarmed by that and by the bitterness of the tone. Had the man become captain without his consent? Castiel remembered it was a grand day when the dragons came to Eden (was it a decade ago already?) but he had never met any rider before (except for Gabriel of course, but he was _family_ and he had never seen his dragon before today). Could they have come unwillingly? Castiel didn't believe his cousin capable of such a thing but maybe they thought they would only stay in Eden for a little while? Just to help them win the war and then go home? Were they _forced_ to stay here because they proved to be such helpful warriors? Not for the first time, Castiel wished he had paid more attention during his father's councils. At least, he would know _something_ about the rider then.

"What should I call you, then?" he asked, admittedly a bit curious.

The man suddenly tensed, inexplicably. The dragon seemed to sense it and groaned softly, a sound of inquiry, turning its head towards them. For the first time since his rescue, Castiel could properly look at the beast. The dragon's wingspan was large compared to its body but it was mostly its colour that had surprised the Prince at first glance. Where other dragons were colourful, having two, three or more colours (or could change their appearance at all times, like Gabriel's mount), this dragon was a mostly uniformed deep black with some blue hues and lighter markers. Like the night sky. At first glance, it wasn't particularly remarkable, nor intimidating. It didn't have sharp teeth or pointy spikes or even a horn like the others. Even its claws were pretty unimpressive compared to the other species. If dragons were not all carnivorous, Castiel would have picked this one as the pacifist inoffensive vegetarian. But the dragon _was_ the Captain's mount so it should have something pretty special. It was fast, that was for sure, but Castiel wouldn't have picked speed as cardinal value for a dragon. Fire power, maybe. He hadn't seen the dragon fight so he couldn't know.

Though, when he looked a little more closely, Castiel was taken aback by the green of its eyes. Not the same green as its owner but still...peculiar. Pale, yellowy green, slit in the middle by a black pupil. Like a cat's eyes. And there was intelligence there, some understanding that other dragons didn't seem to have. This one looked more human than beast. It was...confusing.

"S'nothing baby, don't worry."

The man scratched absent-mindedly the dragon's ear. The beast, seemingly calmed, returned its attention to the sky. Of its own volition, it suddenly flew higher, towards the clouds, emitting all sorts of noises that made the man laugh. Castiel held onto the man more tightly, suddenly afraid of falling. "Not now, girl, we're not alone. You're scaring the Prince." he chided.

The dragon huffed a bit but grudgingly obeyed, returning to the previous altitude with a soft grunt. The man rubbed her head affectionately.

"That's my girl."

And then the dragon closed her eyes and literally _purred_. Castiel's eyes were glued to it. This big, scaly, scary thing was purring like the cat that just got the cream. It was getting more and more adorable by the minute. Castiel would never have thought that possible.

Watching those two interact, though, Castiel felt like he intruded on something very intimate. And the idea was more than slightly disturbing. He absolutely did not want his mind to steer in _that_ direction.

"Can you see the other riders, my Prince?"

Castiel startled a little, surprised at being addressed. He tried to turn his head in the opposite direction but soon found his neck uncooperative.

"To be honest, I don't think I can stand to look back."

A full laugh, once again. Castiel almost didn't mind that it was at his expense.

"Okay. Impala, turn around. Let's see if Sam and the others are following."

Suddenly, the dragon took a sharp turn, almost getting vertical before changing directions. Castiel's stomach violently protested and he tightened again (if that was even possible) his grip on the dragon's flanks. The beast huffed unhappily.

Behind them or, rather in front of them now, were the other riders. Victor looked worse for wear and even Gabriel had lost his perpetual smile. The tall man's – Sam, he supposed – clothes were singed and Jo's dragon was flying a lot less quickly than the others. But they all were here. Castiel suddenly felt overwhelmed with gratitude for those men and woman. If it weren't for them, he would probably still be rotting in his cell.

Apparently feeling as much relief at seeing them safe and sound than him, the she-dragon emitted sounds that would probably translate to enthusiastic hellos in human language. The other dragons answered in kind, a cacophony of croaks, growls, hisses and shrieks. And then, as if it wasn't enough, she fired a ball of blue-purple-white gas in the direction of the other dragons. It exploded in fire when it reached them.

Maybe it was the dragon way of greeting.

The other creatures all flew with a little more energy, regrouping together, seemingly enjoying the ball of warmth sent their way, eyes closed in delight. Their riders, though, seemed a lot less pleased. Hair twisted in an aerodynamic shape and faces covered in soot, they were all glaring at them.

"Damn it, Dean! I told you to stop doing that!" yelled Sam, one raised fist shaking menacingly in the man's – Dean, _finally_ , he knew his name – direction, though he had a smile on his face.

"Not my fault if she ain't listening, Sammy!" Dean laughed, full of joy. "You're all alright there, guys?"

"Yep, Captain!"

"Joooo." Dean whined. "Not you too."

"You said _guys_. I am totally in the right, _Captain_."

"You know I hate that word! Why you..."

"Stop bickering like an old couple, you two. You're alright, cous'? Dean cosy enough for ya?"

Castiel fought hard the blush that threatened to spread to his face. He wasn't sure if he succeeded. Of course Gabriel would have noticed that he was all over Dean like an octopus _and_ not have the decency to shut up about it. At least, he could pretend it was fear that made him react that way (which was partly true) and not any possible attraction he felt for the man.

Fear, yep, that was all.

"Shut up, Gabe!"

Which was definitely not the appropriate answer, seeing the sudden wide smile that stretched his cousin's lips. Oh damn. He was going to hear about that for a while back at the castle. He had been insufferable when he had learned about Castiel's little adventure with Balthazar – _"the flashy pirate who abducted the almost naked Prince"_ – and Castiel might as well have been wearing on his forehead _"I'm attracted to the handsome Captain"_ for all his discretion skills. A new rumour was definitely not what Castiel needed right now. His father would be even more determined to marry him and the Prince didn't want to plan an escape all over again, thank you very much. Unfortunately, he had (almost) no hope for his infatuation to be kept silent; he didn't put blackmail past his cousin. God only knew what he would ask. It could range from twenty virgins from the exotic islands to a literal ton of candy from Queen Eve's realm.

"I suggest you all stop your bantering right now." came a booming voice, carrying well on the wind. Victor's voice. "We still have a long way until we reach Eden and I don't know about you or your dragons, but Vidrir is bone-deep tired. I don't want to prolong this any more than necessary for his sake."

All the other riders calmed themselves instantaneously, head bowed down like scolded children. The dragons emitted encouraging noises towards their companion, who merely responded. The horrifying beast that Castiel thought was the Devil was definitely in bad shape.

"Sorry. Vidrir, hang in there, boy, we're almost there." Dean replied, voice suddenly very soft towards the dragon. The creature emitted a low shriek, which garnered him an anxious look from Sam. To Victor, Dean said: "If you need to, Sam can carry you. Loki and Spear can help Vidrir."

The dragon shook his head, his shriek stronger this time. A sound of protest, Castiel would bet.

"You're too proud, old boy. I don't want you to drop in the ocean because you're too tired. You're not in your element and we all know the sun isn't good for your eyes. You'll let Loki and Spear carry you if you're too weary to fly, okay?"

A long whine, so uncharacteristic and out of place with the dragon's stature escaped Vidrir's mouth. He was admitting defeat.

"Good. Now, Impala." Dean said forcefully, before leaning forward and pressing his legs against the dragon's flanks. Despite the lower volume, Castiel could still hear him say to his mount: "Don't fly too hard or too fast, okay?"

Impala groaned and turned back, more slowly this time, which was totally fine by Castiel. The Prince relaxed slightly, releasing his death grip on Dean. He could almost enjoy the wind blowing and the sun on his skin, this way. The Prince was lost in thought for a moment (mostly admiring the man's short dirty blonde hair and broad shoulders) before the conversation came back to his mind.

"How long until we reach Eden?"

"A few hours. We took three hours on our way to Perdition but the dragons are tired so I guess it will take a little longer this time. You can sleep if you want, I don't mind."

"Are you insane?" he almost screamed, unconsciously pressing the dragon's flanks, as if it could prevent him from falling.

Impala groaned loudly and glared at him, clearly unhappy. Castiel took back everything he had thought earlier. A grumpy dragon does not look like an inoffensive cat. At all.

"Can you tell her to stop that? I feel like she's going to eat me alive." he whispered, trying to not garner the dragon's attention. His plan failed remarkably as the dragon suddenly took a spin. Castiel felt his dinner try to make an escape and discover the world on his own.

"Nah, she likes you." Dean said, with a smile in his voice, once they weren't doing any acrobatics that threatened to make him lose the contents of his stomach right there.

The Prince huffed (once opening his mouth was safe again), clearly doubtful. She didn't seem to like him _at all_. She kept glaring at him and Castiel was sure that she was purposefully batting her wings hard against his thighs to try to unhorse (or rather un _dragon_ ) him.

Dean laughed. Maybe he had said that aloud, come to think of it. Oh well.

"She hasn't thrown you into the sea yet. It's a very good beginning, don't you think?"

At that, Castiel just tightened his hold on Dean. He could feel the rumbling of his laughter against his chest.

"Don't hold her so tightly with your legs, you're irritating her. She can't breath properly if you're constricting her throat."

"If I don't hold her, I'll fall."

Castiel could hear Dean's exasperation and amusement in his tone.

"Moron. Hold on to me."

The Prince could have have him beaten for his insult. But he didn't really care. On the contrary, he appreciated Dean's colourful and unrefined language. It was so much better than all the flattery and hypocrisy at court. It was oddly refreshing.

"And if you fall?"

"I would never fall. Impala will always catch me. Right, baby?"

A happy mix of a groan and a purr came from the dragon. Castiel had the distinct impression that the creature had just smiled. The lack of food must have had more severe consequences than he thought.

"That is so reassuring." sneered Castiel. "And what of me?"

"I would catch you of course. Or, well, if that doesn't work, I'd fall with you, I guess. Have to cushion the Prince, after all."

It was definitely the food. Castiel saw double-entendres where there was none. The captain couldn't flirt with him, right?

"Yes, well, I'd rather not tempt fate. I doubt I will be able to fall asleep when I'm miles above the ocean, on a dragon that seems to hate me and only staying in place thanks to your jerkin."

He felt warm hands reach behind him, seize his stiff hands before lacing their fingers and direct them to the man's belly. Castiel's breath caught in his throat. He completely forgot his hands were supposed to be hurting like Hell.

_Don't hyperventilate, don't hyperventilate, don't hyperventilate._

Hell. This was so much more than he was ready for. His fingers itched to reach for the warmth they could feel underneath.

"Don't be a baby." Dean huffed, noticing Castiel's hesitation. He turned his head toward him, glaring, but his smile was belying the threat in his eyes. Castiel loved his smile. "Your grip is weak and impractical. Put your bloody arms around my waist and squeeze all your might if that reassures you. I just saved you, I won't have you killed because you were too shy."

Castiel was in Heaven. There was no other explanation for it.

"Thanks, Dean."

"No problem, my Prince."

And Castiel, despite his better judgement, fell asleep only a few minutes later. He would blame Dean's surprisingly comfortable back, after that.

***

Castiel groaned unhappily as a finger poked his flank. "Lemmealone" he mumbled, nuzzling deeper into the solid warmth under his nose. His pillow smelled extraordinarily good today. Had the servants put some new perfume on it? What was this fragrance? It smelled delightful. Castiel inhaled deeper, his foggy mind already going back to sleep. So warm. So nice...

"Oh, Cassie, you're adorable. Dean, you have to rate his princely cuddles. From one to five?"

Castiel very abruptly woke up. Startled, his arms flailed wildly, releasing their hold on Dean. Without his support and his mind still fuzzy, Castiel slipped ungracefully from the saddle and landed painfully on...the ground. On tall, green grass that would have been at mid-thigh if he was standing. Unfortunately, it meant that right now he was literally engulfed in vegetation, with smiling riders looking down on him and a dragon practically roaring with laughter at his demise. Impala, Castiel soon discovered. Yeah, that beast definitely hated his guts.

Still smiling and making no effort to help the poor Prince regain his footing – even ignoring him completely –, Dean, still on Impala, said on a thoughtful tone:

"I'd say three. Had to keep him from taking an involuntary plunge into the sea, 'twas tiring. And at first, he gripped Impala so tight...a guy could almost feel neglected, you know." His smile became more secretive, teasing. "Otherwise, hey, it was a good heating system."

Castiel felt himself blush furiously, mortified and angry. Trying to regain his dignity among the riders' hardly hidden guffaws, Castiel made a move to stand up. But it was without taking his fatigue and hunger into account. His days of captivity suddenly caught up with him and he stumbled on his feet, almost falling back again. Dean's hand caught him before he could meet the ground, raising him firmly to a standing position. He whispered a feeble thanks to the rider, head bowed down, incapable of looking at him.

What a picture he must make, he thought with anger and bitterness. The Crown Prince of Eden, future ruler of the Heavenly Kingdom, in tattered clothes, barely able to stay on his feet, looking like a madman. He felt so ashamed. He clenched his fists automatically before hot white pain shot through his fingers. He suppressed a moan, biting it back on his tongue. He had forgotten the poor state of his hands, with all the adrenaline. Shaking himself mentally, he straightened his back and took a look around. He could only see green grass.

"Where are we?" he asked brusquely, wanting to divert his attention to more important matters. He would be healed at the castle. Right now, he had to act accordingly to his rank. He had to get his head together.

"Back home, my Prince."

Dean's answer was soft and his eyes were concerned. Castiel abruptly averted his eyes, returning his attention to the horizon, dismayed by his answer. He didn't know how he could have slept through the entire flight and the landing. Had he been so extenuated? So weak? How could he have lowered his guard like that? He could have been killed if he had put his trust in anyone else. He was so angry with himself.

Sensing the tense atmosphere, Gabriel graced them with one of his trade-mark smiles. This one in particular screamed _trouble_. Castiel was sure he would not like what would be coming out of this mouth.

" _Your_ Prince, uh, Dean?"

Castiel threw him a scathing look, angry at his cousin but at himself too. Castiel knew he had to correct Dean the moment he had called him _my Prince_. It was a weakness, a stupid infatuation and Gabriel had noticed it. Castiel knew that sooner or later, his cousin would put this knowledge to use but now was not the time for such conversations. Gabriel never knew when to shut up.

Dean seemed puzzled, though, clearly not understanding what this was all about. His eyes were travelling between Gabriel and Castiel, as if just one look could give him an answer. "What? You're gonna tell me we rescued a peasant that looks just like the Prince and the real one's still at Crowley's place?"

Castiel knew it was not meant as an insult. He knew it was merely a joke. However, in his current state, the jibe cruelly hit his ego. He did not look like a Prince and he hated it.

"I _am_ Castiel James Emmanuel of the Angeles, son and heir of King Charles the Beloved, Crown Prince of the Heavenly Kingdom of Eden, thank you very much, _Captain_."

He felt a sick sort of satisfaction at the grimace that appeared on Dean's face at the utterance of the word he hated. However, he only felt better for a moment, his good mood quickly souring. Who was he becoming? Why was he acting like that? He resembled so much his uncle Raphael at that moment that he hated himself. Before he could stammer a sorry, though, Sam intervened, approaching them on his two-headed dragon, a slight frown on his face. He kept shooting anxious looks at Castiel.

"No, Dean, he meant...you're supposed to call him Your Royal Highness."

Dean looked suddenly appalled. Turning his head towards Castiel, he suddenly and very awkwardly bowed, still on his dragon. Impala didn't move one bit, despite Dean's not-at-all-discrete hiss of _get the fuck down, girl!_ Castiel had seen better curtsies in his life.

"Oh fuck. Hm. Sorry. Excuse me my...Your Royal Highness. I didn't know."

His stupid anger suddenly vanished and Castiel could only stare uncomfortably at Dean, unsure of how to feel, how to react. A part of him was mourning the loss of the term that was never a show of affection, feeling hurt at the distance. The other part of him, the main voice – the Prince's – said _"of course, he didn't know, you hopeless idiot, he's not even from Eden."_

And there lied the whole problem, wasn't it? The dragonriders were not from Eden. With the exception of Victor and Gabriel, they were all from the North. Pagans. Barbarians. Savages. They had no respect for any kind of authority, no respect for a king, much less the Prince of a foreign nation. Castiel merely had been a man like any other to Dean, until Gabriel reminded him of the respect he should show to the Crown Prince of Eden. In that very brief moment, Castiel wished he was never born a Prince.

"Didn't you pay any attention to your lessons, Captain?" Gabriel jeered.

"I know about the King and the Lords and Ladies. Never had to face a Prince before so fuck off Gabe." Dean snapped, clearly not in the mood and still embarrassed.

"Alright alright, no need to be so crude!" Gabriel seemed to back off, before he added, smirking: "It's not like you had to respect a king where you came from, right? And to think that you could have been a _chief_..."

Everything happened in a flash.

Impala charged suddenly toward Gabriel, who only owed his life to the rapidity of his own dragon, which hissed and shot a ball of acid in retaliation. The acid melted the ground in the place where Impala had been just before. Gabriel seemed shocked and a little shaken, which was a first for Castiel. And the Prince could easily understand why. The pure fury he could see in the yellowy-green eyes was frightening. Teeth bared, mouth twisted in a ferocious snarl, poised to attack and ready to shoot its blue fire, the black dragon was terrifying. Dressed in leather and a dark green wool tunic, a long sword on his hip and a small blade at his belt, face hard and almost regal on his mount, Dean looked exactly like the warrior his ancestors had feared so much. There was barely concealed energy and hatred in his taut body and Castiel was sure, so _sure_ , that he would attack Gabriel, that he would unleash his beast on his cousin for whatever offence he made. The other riders all seemed to hold their breath, waiting for their leader to make his move. Impala reared back and Castiel let out a strangled noise that may have been a "no". He wasn't so sure. _Dean must know,_ he thought feverishly _, he must know he cannot attack Gabriel, he will be trialled, he will be executed. Oh Lord, don't let anything happen to Gabriel._ The beast roared one more time, the powerful sound echoing between the walls of his skull, filling him with dread. Hands tight around the handles of Impala's saddle, Dean threw a murderous glare in Gabriel's direction before he took off suddenly, darting towards the darkening sky. " _Fuck you_ , Gabe."

Stunned for a few seconds, the Prince did not react immediately and was taken aback when he heard another voice break the heavy silence.

Sam's hazel eyes were full of animosity when they rested upon Gabriel. The left head of his dragon hissed and strained towards his cousin, apparently ready to attack. Sam kept it in check, but barely. Castiel could see the sharp teeth only a few inches from his cousin's face.

"I'm going after him. You can bring back the Prince on your own, _Lord Gabriel_."

Soon after, the two-headed dragon went to the skies, on the trail of the shooting black arrow that was his rider's brother. A long roar filled the air before an explosion of fire illuminated the clouds. Castiel winced.

Gabriel appeared a little paler than a few seconds ago but didn't have the decency to look ashamed. He huffed, full of disdain and muttered under his breath _"temperamental idiots"_. Castiel knew better than that; he knew his cousin was just hiding his fear behind bravado. Jo looked torn and kept looking between the sky and Castiel. He could feel how desperately she wanted to go after her friends and how she restrained herself to not hit Gabriel. Her dragon's wings were wide open and it croaked questioningly, seemingly ready to take flight. Finally, after murmuring a few words to her mount, she eventually approached Castiel, shoulders slumped and smile gone. Victor was close by her side, Vidrir reluctantly following his order to fall in line. Of the five riders, only three remained. The atmosphere could not have been more unhappy.

Something uncomfortable twisted Castiel's stomach when he finally processed the departure of the two men and his throat constricted painfully. What was that all about? How could Dean have been a chief if he was today in Eden, merely a Captain and not leading a clan at all? Of course, he was aware that Gabriel knew the riders better than him, he had been the one who brought them to Eden, after all. But still, Castiel wished his cousin had kept his usual brazen attitude under control. His father would not like Castiel to be returned without the Captain being there (or maybe that was just his excuse for being so disappointed by Dean's disappearance) and it wouldn't do for the garrison to miss its two leaders. The garrison was so small already.

Since Gabriel was technically the garrison's other lieutenant (mostly because he was a Lord, not because of his skills), it was his cousin's role to bring him back to his father. Castiel went on the (now red) dragon's back without a word. The silence and unease he could feel between the four of them was a stark contrast to the easy camaraderie and playfulness that had reigned in Dean's presence. Castiel almost felt sick. The Prince couldn't decide if he loathed Gabriel at the moment or if he was glad it was his cousin who would lead him to the King. He knew he couldn't afford to be distracted by Dean if he was to face his father.

Though, when the beautiful fortified walls of Eden came into view (they had been just a few miles outside the city, on Dean's demand, to wake the Prince), Castiel couldn't help but cringe and panic. How would his father react to his escape? To his abduction? Would he start a war against Crowley? Would he put even more guards outside Castiel's chambers to prevent any future disobedience? Would he try to marry him as soon as he was between the castle's walls?

Despite himself, he clung more tightly to Gabriel, loathing to admit he was afraid to meet his father. He had never disobeyed so thoroughly before. It was sending a bad signal to Eden's people. How could the King rule his kingdom if he could not even get the respect of his own flesh and blood? Castiel knew his father's detractors would use his childish behaviour against his father. They would declare Castiel unfit for the task, a nearing twenty-seven years old man, the future _king_ , a man who behaved like a spoiled child. The nobles would raise their voices and demand that Castiel never sit on the throne. They would demand that King Charles cede the crown to his brother Raphael. And then, there would be war, endless battles and massacres. Castiel's idiotic fantasies would ruin the dynasty, ruin the kingdom, ruin the _peace_.

Were he in better condition, he probably would have realised he was panicking and exaggerating the situation. King Charles was not cruel and he was loved by his people. The throne would never pass to Raphael. But there was no one to whisper those words to him, no one to reassure him. And his feverish mind kept going on and on, sick with fear and hysteria.

When they passed over the vibrant blue, white and gold walls of Eden, all imageries of angels and saints, Castiel could barely look at them. Normally, the view would have filled him with awe and peace but now they only made his stomach lurch painfully. He could not stand to look at them if it was the last time he saw them.

Gabriel didn't say anything during the flight and Jo and Victor were silent likewise. Castiel thought he heard gasps when they passed over the streets, projecting monstrous dragon shadows, but it could have been his imagination. When they arrived in front of the gates, the dragons digging their claws into the earth, the guards visibly flinched, their spears ready, but they calmed themselves and automatically bowed when they saw Gabriel. Castiel had no illusion that he was recognised as the Prince, dirty and in shabby clothes as he was. It was on unsteady feet that he touched the ground, but he refused the help extended to him. His pride stung enough as it was. The riders released their dragons and Gabriel told him they were flying back to "Bobby's place". Castiel didn't know who that Bobby was and he didn't care. They were soon admitted to the castle and an envoy told them that the King was waiting for them in his solar.

Castiel could only be thankful that his father had no taste for ceremonies and chose to meet them in private. Castiel did not want to see the court or his uncle Raphael yet.

The walk from the gates to the high tower that was the King's had never seemed longer and at the same time shorter in all of Castiel's existence. He was exhausted and wanted to put the confrontation past him already but he feared the meeting with his father, feared what he might say.

When a sudden ball of red and sea-green barrelled into him in the Crown Square, Castiel nearly lost his balance. He only owed the avoidance of further humiliation to the frail arms that encircled his torso with surprising strength. Castiel blinked once, twice, wondering absurdly for a moment since when the world had become so red when he realised who was squeezing him to death.

Anna's blazing smile, all white teeth and pink lips, filled him with unprecedented warmth. Closing his eyes, he returned the gesture, his weakened limbs holding his dear sister with all his might. His mind barely registered the riders' whispered and respectful "Your Highness". He was finally realising. He was home. He was _safe_.

How long did the embrace last? A few seconds? Minutes? Castiel didn't know and he didn't care. The familiar perfume of fresh peaches was invading his nostrils, filling him with calm and affection. Back then, back in his dungeon cell, he had thought for a moment that he would never see his sister again. Never have the occasion to talk to her, smile at her or just plainly look at her. Relief was flooding his mind, relief at being back, at being safe in his city's impenetrable walls, safe in his little sister's arms.

There were tears in Anna's beautiful hazel eyes when they finally separated. It made Castiel only wish he could hold her forever.

"Brother." came Anna's broken voice. A shaking finger touched his temple, slowly following the side of his face, the arch of his jaw before resting on his cheek. Like she had to assure herself that he was real. "I am so glad you are back and alive."

And if Castiel's responding smile was a little watery, then it was no one's business.

"I am too, Anna." He swallowed the words that threatened to spill from his lips, knowing they didn't have time for reunions right now. He gulped. "How is Father, dear sister?"

Anna bit her lower lip. She lowered her eyes before meeting his again. She shook her head slowly.

"Most displeased at your attitude..." Castiel sucked in a breath. "...but relieved to know you're back home." Her smile wavered a little. She grabbed his arm and squeezed a little. "You should hurry, he's anxious to see you. You will tell me everything later."

Castiel nodded wordlessly. His sister let him go, smiling encouragingly. Bracing himself, he took a step towards the tower, not really caring if the riders followed him, but still relieved when they did so. With Gabriel by his side, he crossed the Crown Square until he was at the royal castle, the looming grey stone fortress atop the hill still impressing him despite having grown up here. More guards greeted them and some recognised Castiel, muttering "Your Royal Highness" and bowing their heads on his passage. Castiel didn't spare them a glance.

Before today, Castiel would never have thought climbing stairs would be so difficult (it was a product of his captivity, nothing more, his mind added, but it didn't help his ego in any way) but he pushed on, determination burning brightly in his soul. He was the Crown Prince. Not a coward. He would face his father and acknowledge his mistakes like a man.

When the old oakwood door leading to his father's solar creaked, Castiel wavered, feeling like a little boy going to be scold again. Sucking in a breath, he stepped forward. It was now or never.

The wide circular room was dark, humid and warm, like some kind of cavern. The windows were few, here, and the light was principally coming from candles. However, no candles were lit now. Because there wasn't enough time, because his father didn't feel like lightening the room, Castiel didn't know. He let himself observe the familiar tapestries hanging on the walls (scenes of battle or hunts, peaceful gardens and nature), black and faded with time and smoke. The little golden or bronze objects decorating the wooden furnitures. The heavy books and tomes littering the place like a plague. The colourful carpets covering the stone floor, deliciously warm in winter. Despite the good weather, a fire was roaring in the fireplace, the only source of light in the room. A small figure was standing just in front of the fire, huddled in furs, hands pushed towards the flames.

His father was always cold.

The guard standing before them called on the King, surprising Charles. His father had never been a great warrior like his own father, Emperor Michael, had been. He wasn't tall or particularly handsome. He was shy and soft-spoken and loved books more than wars. He wasn't a fervent and religious man and Castiel knew that, occasionally, some women of disputable reputation shared his father's bed. He didn't really have the shoulders to be a king but being the first-born son, the task had befallen to him. His uncle Raphael still hadn't made peace with that, decades later. Still, King Charles was loved by his people for the peace and prosperity he had brought to Eden. And what if he lost a few provinces to the south-east? Did it really matter? It was already another kingdom, another country anyway, only united officially under the same crown. Eden's population didn't care about Perdition. They wanted good harvests, healthy children and a peaceful life. King Charles had given them all of that.

Though, when the King finally turned towards them, Castiel didn't think about his feats or his popularity. He only cared that it was his father. The King's startled blue eyes roamed over them, squinting in the dark before they set on Castiel. His father seemed tired, the dark rings under his eyes now more pronounced than ever. But when he fixated his eyes on Castiel, his eyes were filled with relief, love and exhaustion all at once. Castiel released a breath he didn't know he was holding. His father didn't hate him.

The King opened his mouth, his lips quivering a little, before Gabriel intervened. Taking a step forward and bowing in front of the King, he said, with a voice that resonated between the walls:

"Here's your son safely returned home, Your Majesty."

The King blinked a few times before he composed himself. Straightening himself, he gave Gabriel a curt nod. He remembered the formalities.

"I thank you, my dear nephew. I am grateful for the garrison's help to rescue the Prince." His voice was firm and strong, his small body was deceiving. Then, apparently realising the absence of two riders, he asked, frowning and on a slightly disapproving tone: "Where are Captain and Lieutenant Winchester?"

"They had to take care of their dragons, Your Majesty. They fought admirably and were tired a great deal by the returning flight. Captain and Lieutenant Winchester could not wait to tend to their mounts, else they might be in far worse shape on the morrow. Crowley's men were numerous and fierce."

Castiel was astonished by Gabriel's capacity at lying to a King without even a trace of remorse. He tried to keep his surprise from appearing on his face however, he didn't want to betray the lie and compromise Dean. Maybe that was the reason why Gabriel was a diplomat, Castiel mused. His cousin lied through his teeth and kept such a serious face you could only think he was sincere. Castiel idly wondered if Gabriel had used this particular trick on him in the past. Probably.

King Charles nodded absently, accepting the lie without second thought.

"I understand. I will give them my thanks as soon as I see them, then." He cleared his throat and looked a little more pointedly at Castiel before returning his attention to the riders. "You and your dragons must be tired too, you should retire for the evening. Thank you again for your services. The Crown is very grateful for your help."

The riders behind Castiel all bowed and murmured "Your Majesty" before disappearing in silence. The door softly shut behind him, leaving him with only his father in the solar. The King approached him slowly, like he was a wild beast, taking his appearance into account. Tattered clothes, dirty face, two-weeks-beard, thin frame and scratched skin, he didn't look princely at all and he felt suddenly overwhelmed with self-consciousness. He tried to shy away from his father's eyes, curling a bit on himself unconsciously. The blue eyes lingered on Castiel's hands. He instinctively curled his fingers before the pain came back to him. He gritted his teeth.

"What happened to your hands?" His father asked softly, curious and intrigued. There was maybe a hint of anger in the words too. Castiel was too tired to care.

"I...I tried to dig up a passage."

The King tilted his head on the side. A gesture that Castiel had adopted unconsciously when he was a child and never gave up.

"How many days did you spend there?"

"Six days, I think."

The King hummed. "How were you treated? Did they deprive you of food? They didn't torture you, did they?" He suddenly looked afraid of the answer.

"No, father, they did not. I...I had food, three meals a day, but I did not eat until the third day, I believe. I thought the food would be poisoned. Crowley didn't appear until the dragons came to rescue me. He did not say what he wanted."

The King huffed, very human suddenly. He was just a grey man, huddled in furs that resembled more a sleep robe than a formal royal attire.

"What he always wants. Eden's crown. Re-unite the kingdoms. Prove his legitimacy as the new Emperor. I bet he's not even Lucifer's bastard son." Castiel didn't argue. A heavy sigh passed his father's lips. When the King looked up once again, his eyes were disapproving.

"You do know none of that would have happened if you had not bolted at the first occasion to escape marriage?"

Castiel tried to swallow his nervousness. There. He bowed his head, obediently, contritely. Hoping it would suffice to appease the King.

"I know, father. I am sorry."

His father's arms shot in the air. A sign that he was not as calm as he usually appeared to be. He was dropping all pretence of control. His voice was rising higher and higher as the words escaped his mouth.

"You could have been maimed. You could have been killed. And what would have happened? You know that with Anna still unwed, the crown would have passed to Raphael were I to die. I am not immortal and Raphael's respect for family does not extend very far. Did I not teach you about the consequences, Castiel? Did I not teach you how to be a responsible monarch?"

The blue eyes were pleading. Castiel felt like a little boy again. He had disappointed his father. Again.

"You did, father. The fault lies with me. I am aware of that and I apologise." He sucked in a breath, nervous suddenly for what he was about to say. He hoped his father would understand. "I did not escape the castle for what you think. Or not only for this reason, at least." He amended. Raising his eyes to look at his father, Castiel continued, his gaze meeting the King's. "I wished to know the realm better, father. I wished to know Eden's people, truly, without them bowing to me because I'm their Prince. I wanted their sincere opinion on your reign, I wanted to know how I could be better for our people. I wanted to know their sufferings and wishes and hopes. I wanted to be the monarch you wanted me to be." His voice broke, then. Tears were gathering under his eyelids but Castiel pushed them back furiously. Now wasn't the time to appear weak. "I was...a fool and I got caught by one of Crowley's servants. I am sorry."

A new sigh escaped his father's lips. Shaking his head, the King paced in front of the fire, the flames giving his face orange hues, lightening only half of it. His father stayed in front of the hearth a long time before his voice broke the silence.

"I will admit that your intentions were good, son." His tone, when he turned his head back on Castiel, was berating, however. "Even if I am still displeased by your disobedience."

Castiel almost smiled at that. He knew his father wasn't really angry, just really annoyed with him right now. It wouldn't last long. He now felt surer, stronger than a few seconds before. Maybe it was this sudden confidence that pushed him to this decision. Maybe it had already been lurking in the back of his mind when he was pressed against Dean's back. Maybe he had always wanted to prove himself to his father, somehow. Maybe it was just an excuse to escape marriage again. Maybe it was just an excuse to see the handsome Captain a bit more. Maybe it was genuine curiosity. Maybe it was a bit of all of those reasons.

"I know father, and I will make amends." He took a long breath before he continued. _It's now or never_. Straightening his back and with a firm voice, he said: "Father, I wish to be stronger for Eden. I wish to be able to stand up to my uncle, if ever there is a battle for succession." He paused and reached for his father's arm. The king let him, looking at him patiently, curious. Castiel inhaled. "A decade ago, you asked the North for help, despite the court's opposition, despite all the voices that said you were mad. Despite the threats to your legitimacy. You held on. You saved the kingdom because you cared for Eden's good first and foremost. I see now how it must be done. I see now what makes you, what makes _us_ stronger than Raphael."

Castiel held his breath. He could see the confusion in his father's eyes, the silent question in them. Castiel would not hesitate. His mind was already set. With a determined tone, he continued:

"For my birthday, father, I want the dragon I was promised. I want to learn how to become a dragonrider."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is set in the middle of the 12th century. Despite the end of the Viking Age in the 11th century, Norway was only officially Christianised in 1154 (with the establishment of the archdiocese of Nidaros) and it is said that the population still held to the old beliefs for a long time after that. Therefore, even if Dean and the others are not truly Vikings, they come from this heritage, keep the Vikings' values, traditions and religion and Eden's people still consider them as such. The kingdoms of Eden and Perdition were once unified under the name of the Elysian Empire, a very very very lose reference to the Angevin Empire (Eden being England and Perdition being Normandy/France). The Angevin empire was dissolved in 1224 but since I wanted to keep close enough to the Viking Age, I changed the dates a bit (it's a fiction, after all).
> 
> Eden's painted walls are inspired by the Ishtar Gate (not painted but composed of coloured glazed bricks) and French Gothic and Romanesque cathedrals façades (in particular Reims Cathedral) which were painted in medieval times. Despite their beauty, Eden's walls are fortified and solid and have never let an enemy enter the city.
> 
> I will try to be as much historically accurate as I can, except for the opinion about strangers (skin colour has no importance in this universe but religion does). I am still conflicted about homosexuality, which was considered a crime in Viking culture (punishable by death since the man was "no longer human") and one of the worst sins in Christian religion (the sentence seems to vary between regions and times however). Either this story is going to grow much darker as the destiel progresses or I can change that bit of history and keep the tone light. What would you prefer?
> 
> Since this story is mostly fantasy and humour, there will be _voluntary_ inaccuracies and anachronisms. (If, however, you notice a mistake that does not serve the humour or fantasy aspect of the fic, please tell me.) For example, there will be a few twists to the Viking culture. I know that in the Scandinavian tradition, the "family name" is just a "son of/daughter of". In this case, Sam and Dean's last name should be Johnsen. But for the sake of this fic, please just ignore this twist to the Scandinavian culture and let's pretend they take on their clan name, okay? If you really wanted authenticity, Dean would be called Harold and Sam, Olaf. And that is not something you want. (Besides, Dreamworks did not fully respect Viking culture with _How to Train Your Dragon_ , so I am in the right.)


	3. How to Piss Off a Captain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean goes livid. He shouts, indignant. "It's an abomination! Dragons are intelligent beings, they..."  
> "They're _mounts_ , Captain. Not pets. Maybe you should remember that when teaching our Prince. Lest he become too _soft_."

The clouds are cold and wet; they leave his skin frozen, sweat turned to a thin sheet of ice-like second skin. He shivers. His eyes sting with the force of the wind, tears flowing freely and instantaneously wiped away by the gust. He can barely open them anymore, can barely see anything beside a confused blur of grey, but he doesn't worry, he trusts Impala to know her way through the clouds. His stiff fingers scream in agony at the lack of gloves and shivers run down his spine because he didn't care to wear warmer clothes. He should be uncomfortable, feverish even but Dean doesn't care about conventions. He doesn't care about the cold or the wind or the humidity. This? This is freedom. Flying, leaving all his troubles behind, leaving them _below_ is liberating in a way the sea never was. You can loose yourself in the deep blue of the sea, love her, adore her, devote yourself to her but she is an unfaithful and greedy lover, ready to take you to far countries as well as drown you in a storm. She can never be tamed, never be totally calm and she can claim you at any time. The gods can be cruel to sailors and Dean is not ready to join Rán yet, he has no gold to please her. And in those faithless lands, he doesn't know what fate would await him after his death. Would he still go to Valhalla? Helheim? Niflheim? Or would he go to the Christian Heaven, Hell, maybe? Would he wander between worlds without ever reaching peace?

He closes his eyes and breathes. His nose and throat burn. It reminds him that he's not dead, yet.

He is a child of the sea but the wind is his true lover. Here, on Impala's back, diving into clouds that taste like rain and electricity, Dean has never felt more at peace, more free. He can feel and taste the storm coming his way and he welcomes it with open arms. Let the whirlwind take him away.

Far behind, he can hear Sam calling him. Speaking their language, pleading him to come back, cursing him. He only pushes Impala higher, faster. A Zippleback is no match for a Night Fury and Sam knows that, he's the bookworm between the two of them. The idiot still came after him, in an imminent storm that can harm both him and his dragon. Dean lets a wave of affection for his little brother wash over him before he squashes it. He needs to detach himself from everything that is _him_ and only make one with the wind. Here, he's not Dean, son of John, a hunter exiled from his clan nor Dean Winchester, the Captain of the Garrison of Eden. He's meaningless, weightless. He's part of the wind. He's nothing. Slowly, his fingers lose their grip on the frozen metal handles, slowly, his feet leave the stirrups. With a soft exhale, he lets himself slide off the saddle, lets the wind cradle him in his arms.

He falls.

He screams. He screams for what feels like hours but is probably only seconds. He screams words of old, promises he couldn't keep. He screams at the top of his lungs, tries to outmatch the furious howl of the wind, the crack of thunder that is Thor's voice. He screams until he can't scream anymore, his throat too sore, his voice too damaged. He screams all his hatred, all his frustrations, all his regrets, all his pain. Njörðr takes them with him, swallows them and he feels lighter already. Eyes closed, he falls.

Sam's deafening yell resonates against the walls of his skull but he tunes it out. Tunes everything out. What matters is the wind, the voices of the gods screaming in his ears as he dances with death. Rain falls on his face, like a million of icy little spikes, like a million cold kisses. His lungs are on fire and he feels light-headed. In that brief moment, he feels _alive_. His skin is tingling everywhere, like electricity is racing under it, like he holds thunder in his bones. He tastes the pure air and the rush of adrenaline. He smells the brine and the storm. He hears the crashing of the waves, the roar of Thor. His feet touch the cold deep blue – Ægir's jaws ready to close on him.

And then, there's another gust of wind, another smell – the taste of fire. A sleek black form flies underneath him, catches him before he joins Rán's hall. Spread across the scaly back, he almost falls again before he grips the handles, just grips the handles and lets his body stay still for a while. He buries his face in the neck of his dragon, warm and cool at the same time, his raspy whisper almost taken by the wind.

"Thank you, baby."

She slowly goes higher and higher, her wings strong and hard against his thighs and with each yard she gains, he gradually comes back to himself. The adrenaline, the exhilaration, the euphoria recede. When he sits back correctly in the saddle, hands and legs holding her, Impala groans happily. They fly until they can't anymore.

He loses hours to it, slaloming between the clouds, between the flashes of lightening, watching the sun being slowly swallowed by the sea. The thunder almost deafens him but he welcomes it, welcomes it all because it's a sign of his gods, it's a sign they haven't abandoned him yet. Thor salutes him and encourages him to live, live a bit more. He loses hours to it before the rumbling of his disgruntled stomach reminds him that he's not a dragon, that he cannot live on wind and water alone. Reminds him that he's earthbound. That he's human.

Sometimes, he hates being human.

"Have to eat, baby. Go to Ellen's, okay?"

Impala only groans softly before she takes them back to Eden, knowing her way to the city in a fashion Dean does not. He doesn't want to rely on stars and memory, right now. He just wants to _not_ think and let his dragon lead the way. They might have been halfway back home, for all he knows, with the hours they spent flying alone. He wonders dimly if he will ever see the shores of Laurrsnes again. If he will ever be _home_ again.

When he finally sees Eden's coast, with its characteristic white cliffs shining bright even in the night, it's late, well past supper time and most of the inhabitants are already asleep. He can still see lights in the castle, though, and the fire in the lighthouse. Like they are waiting for something or someone. Dean doesn't want to think it's him. He repeats mentally to himself that he is not Edenish and he isn't part of the Edenish court so he shouldn't matter. He hopes the others arrived safely and made an excuse for his absence. He knows he would soon have to face the King but not now.

He steers Impala a little to the right, where the houses are scarcer and the sea is roaring furiously against the cliffs, ink black against chalk white. They fly over the grey stone castle, and his feet graze the highest tower before Impala dives to the ground.

They land quietly, as silent and invisible as shadows in the night. At the end of one path – more a dirt track that anything else –, he can see a great fire burning inside a house – Bobby's house – and he suddenly longs for its warmth, for the gruff sound of his not-quite-uncle-not-quite-father's voice. But he won't see Bobby yet. His trip to the sky cleared his mind but he still isn't quite himself yet. He's still reeling with emotions, still too unstable to face him. He can't lie to Bobby and he doesn't want to. Remembering suddenly his grumbling stomach and his freezing bones, he heads for Ellen's house to fill his belly with food and warm himself in front of her fire before something sharp stops him. He turns a glare towards Impala when he feels her teeth sink into the leather of his jerkin, close to his skin – he can feel her warm breath against his neck. She looks very disapproving and returns his glare tenfold. Fuck the guy who said that dragons were like their masters – was it him or Sam? he can't remember –, he could do with a little less dragonic temper tantrum right now.

"I've got to _eat_ , girl!" he hisses. Is this one of Impala's jealousy fit? Is she refusing to let him go out of her sight again? He flew with her all day and she's not going to let him eat alone in peace? Was it the thing with the Prince again? Impala never liked being ridden by someone else than Dean – she barely bears Sam's presence on her back and she's known him for almost fifteen years now – but she can at least understand duty, right?

Impala huffs and growls, almost tearing his jerkin (and nearly choking him, in the process) before she shakes her tail impatiently and indicates her saddle with her tail fins.

Oh. He had forgotten.

He reaches a hand towards her head, rubbing her muzzle until she lets him go. He ignores the dragon drool cooling on his neck. It's pretty much a habit by now.

"Sorry, baby." he mumbles, before he quickly unfastens the numerous clasps of Impala's saddle, the task made a bit difficult with her nervous tail swipes and her groans of impatience. As soon as she is free, she bumps her head against his shoulder in an affectionate way – but still makes him stumble a little – before she shoots back to the clouds at full speed. Dean smiles. She always loved the feeling of a storm.

After bringing the saddle with him and depositing it in his house – Sam wasn't back yet, he noticed – he quickly turns to the border between their little "village" and the rest of the city. Their "village", which Eden's people had taken to dub the "Viking village" (a name that never fails to make Dean snort or make Jo raise her hackles. They're not Vikings, if anything, they're Norsemen, but those Christians never understood anything anyway), is just a group of a few houses on the east side of the city. It's actually not very far from the castle and it's right on the coast. Most of Eden's people don't like the location, because it means being closer to a possible attack from Perdition. Dean doesn't mind. In fact, he prefers it this way. He doesn't have to pretend to be a perfect Edenish soldier and love a God that imposed his religion by massacring thousands of people. Those "evangelistic campaigns" left a bitter after-taste to every Norse man and woman for a good long time but on the continent, they finally stopped the raids and began to convert themselves to the new religion. How many of them do actually believe in a unique God? Dean would bet there aren't that many. They converted themselves to be left at peace, to join the flock. The Norse are proud, tough people, but when your entire family is massacred for your beliefs, what do you have left? Where were the gods to protect you when you needed them? Where were the gods when their temples were destroyed, burned? Where were the gods when your daughter, deemed a witch by the Christians, was condemned to death? They stayed silent and deaf to your pleas. So, better turn to that new divinity, get on your knees and profess your love to the God of your murderers. Just to save your skin. Just to maybe have a new chance in life.

Dean never liked that line of thought.

His boots send up a bit more dirt than they should have were he walking calmly. But he's hungry _and_ angry and that is not a good combination. Damn Gabe and his jibes.

When he had arrived in Eden, more than ten years ago, he would never have thought he would stay here, in a Christian land, living among the same men and women who killed his people, albeit indirectly. Were John here to look at him, Dean, a man of the North and keeper of the old gods now a dignified Captain of the Garrison of Eden and at least officially Christian (he did _not_ convert himself, it's all for parade), he would probably be rolling over in his grave.

He has to admit, though, Eden is not like what he had imagined, back then. When Gabriel had come to seek their help, Dean would never have thought that the haughty, "civilised" Christians would stoop so low as to ask "Barbarians" to come to their help. He never really thought Gabriel was who he claimed to be either (he didn't act at all like the nephew of a King in the taverns, to be honest). But he had had nothing to lose, nothing left to care about and so he had gone. And here he is, made Captain, respected by the King himself. He never would have thought he would settle in a country like this.

It was a bit hard, at first, but not as much as he had feared. Learning the language hadn't proven too difficult once you got the hang of it and Gabriel had been their teacher along the way. The weather was more humid and warmer here, and the proportion of daylight in the different seasons was more balanced than where he came from. All in all, Dean didn't complain about the climate though he sometimes missed Laurrsnes' snowy mountains and frozen lake. No, it wasn't the land that Dean had had a hard time with, it was the _people_.

They had reacted to them exactly the way Dean had expected them to. How many _barbarians_ , _heathens_ or _savages_ had he heard on those first few weeks? How many signs of the cross had he seen on his way? How many hateful eyes or averted glances? How many children had been hidden from his view? Like he was a monster, ready to pounce on them to slit their throat and murder their kids. That, that had made him sick. He had immediately wanted to go back to that small island where they had found peace, at least for a while. But there had been a war to fight and a promise to fulfil. Thankfully, the insults had stopped when the riders had proven to be a formidable asset in the war, when _peace_ was won with their help. Their disrespect had then become more discrete, even though he could still see the distrust and fear every time he met their eyes. For all other reasons, though.

Most of all Dean remembers how Eden's people were afraid of the dragons. But not for the same reasons his people were afraid, i.e. dragons killing people, burning their houses and stealing their food. No, the Edenish had feared Dean (or rather Impala) might want to steal the Princess or all the virgin girls and demand gold and jewels as a tribute. Stupid Christian beliefs. Dean had later laughed that Impala was a _she_ -dragon and would certainly not want to eat or claim any girl any time soon and that she didn't care at all for metal – that was Rumsfeld's field and he preferred iron to gold. Though, Dean had to admit, except for Impala and Spear, all their dragons were males and far more terrifying than his baby. Vidrir in particular had a strong effect on people, but well, he was a Whispering Death, even just the name of his kind was fearsome.

At the insistence of his council and when it became clear that Dean and the others were going to stay at least for a little while, the King had tried to give them the ruins of some amphitheatre (a Roman thing) to house the dragons when they were not flying. Cage would have been a more appropriate verb. King Charles could swear all he wanted, Dean had _seen_ the chains they wanted to put down there. There was no way in Hel he'll let his baby be chained. Or any other dragon, for that matter. Dean had staunchly refused the ruins and even the beautiful castle chambers the King had promised to try and coax Dean to leave the dragons far from the population. They had finally come to an arrangement after some harsh negotiations: the riders would have their own houses where they could keep their dragons but far enough from the heart of the city that Eden's people didn't feel threatened by the creatures' presence. The garrison was born and subsequently nicknamed the Viking village.

Yeah. Dean has lost all hope of ever changing that name. In his head, he calls it Drekarheim, though. Don't blame him for lacking imagination, it was never his place to establish some village in Eden. If you can call a group of few houses a village.

Finally, he arrives at the little tavern they came to call the Roadhouse...or simply Ellen's. It's in the border between Drekarheim and the rest of the city. Some of Eden's inhabitants go there, because they like the Norse cuisine or because they think it's exotic (or more accurately rustic). They were few, in the first year they spent here but it is now quite popular. Dean and his family have been here for more than a decade now and they've become sort of part of the picture. They are well-known, if maybe not well-loved.

It is not the North and it's certainly not home, but it's better than nothing. In this place, with his family, Dean can pretend that everything is alright.

When he pushes the door of the Roadhouse, his eyes have to adjust to the dimly lit environment. It smells like grilled bacon and salted cod and ale and sweat and earth and wood and smoke. It smells like home. There are only two customers in the tavern, two Edenish men, one clad in armour (a guard off duty most likely) and one clad in tunic and hoses. Dean nods briefly in their direction, a simplified form of address, before he makes a beeline for the bar. Ellen is serving ale to one of the customers when she spots Dean. A tired but bright smile spreads over her lips, showing the wrinkles around her mouth and eyes. Instead of making her seem old, the lines make her appear just more beautiful. Dean feels instantly warmer, and not just because of the good fire in the hearth.

Ellen leaves her towel on a nearby table and walks towards him, her dark blonde hair streaked with grey in a loose bun bouncing with her steps. Dean expects her to hug him or something equally tender, but she surprises him by punching him none-too-gently in the arm. "Ouch! What the fuck Ellen!" he exclaims, before massaging his sore arm, hurting more than he's comfortable to admit (never underestimate a Norse woman, never). She glares at him but her smile belies the animosity in her eyes.

"You back home so late, boy? Jo came back hours ago! Don't tell me you flew all day?" she scolds him in her thick Northern accent. They avoid speaking Norse in Eden – the paranoid ones always think they are plotting something against them when they can't understand what they're saying. Even if it's something as trivial as "pass me the salt, please".

He gives her a half-hearted shrug before he sits on one wooden stool (he's sure there's going to be splinters in his ass by the end of the evening), gesturing for a pint of ale. Ellen scoffs but gives him a cup nonetheless. He gulps it down readily and wipes his mouth for the bit that didn't quite reach his mouth. That's refreshing. Well, at least now he knows Jo has arrived safely home. A brutal incident seemed very unlikely only a few miles from Eden but with Gabriel's leadership, practically anything could go awry.

"I haven't been a boy for quite some time, Ellen." He was not as annoyed as he should have been at being called a "boy" at thirty years old. But well, Ellen was kind of like his mother. It was hard to tell her no.

"You'll always be my boy, Dean." she says, before pinching his cheeks. Ouch. Again. "Now, don't sass me. You're famished, aren't you?" She eyes him critically and yeah, she's right, he's starving. He flew all day to rescue the Prince and he only ate some salted mutton and hard cheese on the way. It's not like you can carry many things when you're going to fight on dragonback. And Impala is a bit selfish when she hunts. Forget the whole "I'm going to feed my master some fish because I'm a good dragon". Impala didn't get the memo.

He gives her a small contrite small that says "pretty please?" like no other. Ellen huffs but Dean knows she would restart the fires in the kitchen to prepare a whole dinner if it meant feeding Dean. Ellen is awesome like that.

"You don't need to do anything complicated, you know. Simple food's fine."

She rolls her eyes, her closed fists against her hips accentuating the whole scolding posture. When she's all motherly like that, it's hard to remember she was a fierce shieldmaiden once.

"I know your tastes, boy." she says before she goes over to the kitchen, making Dean supper.

Ellen is a gift of the gods. Thanks to her, Dean and the others can still eat their preferred smoked salmon, hard cheese and rye bread (he doesn't know how she gets all this stuff but he's oh so grateful). He grows very quickly tired of all the fancy Edenish dishes (why do they put so much _spices_ in their food?) and he can't stand porridge and gruel. All those stews and broths make him want to retch and the Edenish can't even eat _fruit_ correctly, they cover them with paint or whatever. What is wrong with fresh fruits? Though, he has to admit, he prefers the Edenish ale to their beer. But he will never _never_ admit that aloud.

From the slightly ajar door, he can hear Ellen shout "And I've got that fruit pastry you love so much!"

Okay, Dean could admit it. Fruit tart was definitely something he has learned to love. It's the creation of the century, in his opinion. He could tolerate the Edenish fancy tastes as long as it included pie.

And now, he's definitely hungry.

When the food finally arrives in front of him, Dean eats it all ravenously. He barely savours it, which is, admittedly, quite a shame. At the first bite, he realised how hungry he was and how he had spent all day flying and (a bit) fighting with an almost empty stomach. He almost chokes on his food once or twice, nothing ale can't wash down, however. He eats the pie more slowly, though, ditches the crust (inedible unless you're really desperate – it's called a coffin after all) and enjoy this sweet sweet perfection. It's cherry pie, it's sugary and sharp and his lips are cherry red when he finishes it. His belly is full, he's near a warm fire and he's almost ready to fall asleep.

Ellen's stern look and his own duties come back to him soon enough, though. There are more urgent matters than his tiredness. When he gets up, his joints protest a little from being in a saddle all day but he ignores it. He gives his thanks to Ellen and kisses her cheek before he leaves the tavern. The cold of the wind hits him at the door but he perseveres. He soon will be warm again anyway. His feet are silent in the dirt.

In their little village, Bobby's cabin is the farthest house from the castle. Maybe because the old man is the most distrustful of the Edenish. He doesn't like mingling in with them, avoids at all cost going too near the castle. Which is a bit ridiculous since Bobby's the only rider who's staying in Eden at all time, now. While Dean and the others go on patrol regularly, rarely staying in the capital for more than a few consecutive days, Bobby guards the city with Rumsfeld and whichever other rider who got picked for this duty. From his place, he can spot any Perditionan ship miles ahead and succinctly deal with it. Most of Eden's people are unaware of the fact that Bobby saved them from many threats already. To them, he remains the grumpy old Northerner holed up in his house all day. And, well, Bobby doesn't really try to change their mind.

He knocks twice before entering because Bobby might be old but he was a famous hunter back in the day and his senses are still sharp. Dean doesn't want to get stabbed or burned just because he forgot basic politeness. He doesn't wait for permission, though. This place is almost his home.

As expected, the house is chaotic as ever. The smell of melting metal is heavy in the air and it's tangy on his tongue. Tools are scattered around the place and the floor is strewn with books. Books in Latin, books in runes, books in languages Dean doesn't know. The walls are black with smoke and grime and you can barely distinguish the wood behind them; some of them are covered with shelves, but not nearly enough for all the things Bobby kept accumulating in his travels. Rumsfeld doesn't even lift his big head when Dean comes near the fire, in front of which the dragon is currently lazing about. Dean scratches his chin distractedly, staying strategically far from his sharp teeth, earning him a faint snore. He smiles. Lazy ass dragon.

He finds Bobby at the back of the house, sharpening his battle axe with a whetstone. Whereas Dean has never sported the traditional Norse thick beard (a light scruff is all he's allowing himself to grow) or long hair, Bobby more than made up for his lack of facial hair (and long hair for Sam). And despite the nice weather and the fire nearby, Bobby's wearing a fur cloak, a dark blue cap and a thick brown woollen tunic. Had he been in a better mood, Dean may have joked about old bones fearing the cold; he doesn't say a word though.

Bobby doesn't say anything about the late hour, only grunts to acknowledge Dean's presence. He takes his place next to the old man, on a low wooden stool that is barely better than a chopped tree trunk. He slowly takes his sword out of its leather scabbard, just to make sure no abrupt movement will wake Rumsfeld and transforms him into his dinner. The sword is plain steel with some random patterns adorning the blade (it's not the purest steel) and a black leather grip. There are no jewels on the hilt, no gold foil, no anything, just a plain disc pommel. The blade a bit longer than the average Edenish one and its three fullers make it lighter, easier to manoeuvre. He lets his finger caress the metal, looking for imperfections or damages. He finds none but reaches nonetheless for a bottle of oil and a towel stacked on a shelf just on his right and begins to work on his sword. He didn't really use it today and it's in good condition, but the work is familiar and the slow rhythm is soothing to his nerves. He only stops when the blade is gleaming once again.

Turning his head towards Bobby, who has also finished taking care of his axe, Dean says, after a sigh:

"They know about the eels."

Bobby's face scrunches almost comically. Almost.

"Balls."

Dean hums approvingly. Yeah, it's bad news.

"Who do you think told them?"

He doesn't want to think about it, doesn't want to think about what it could mean – Crowley working with dragon hunters, working with _Norsemen_ – but he has to. It's a serious threat and it could endanger them all. They don't have a Typhoomerang, the only dragon species known to not fear eels and they have nothing to prevent Crowley from using this weapon against them again. The worse, though, is that Dean wonders what _else_ do they know? Do they know that too much noise disorient dragons, rendering them incapable of aiming correctly? Do they know about dragon nip (does it even grow in Eden or Perdition? he hopes it doesn't.), an herb that transforms dragons into puddles of purr? Do they know that some dragons can't fire if their head gets wet? Do they know that dragons have a limited amount of shots? Do they know that some well-placed scratches can make them sleep contently? The list of weaknesses is depressingly long and if Crowley _knows_ , then they are all doomed.

"Dunno. Maybe another clan of hunters? Hel if I know."

There's tension in all his muscles and the relaxing hours he spent with Impala fly out the window. Suddenly, there's a horrifying possibility forming in his mind. His voice is careful and tense when he finally asks the fatidic question.

"Think it could be a Campbell's?"

And _that_ is precisely the moment when a resounding noise interrupts their conversation. Dean quickly gets up on his feet and grabs his sword, aiming it towards the door. Bobby, at his side, is gripping his axe with both hands. They exchange a quick glance. They're ready.

Soon enough, something huge comes crashing through the door, making the door creak violently on its hinges. Said thing quickly turns out to be be a six feet four tall man with long brown hair and impressive shoulders answering to the name of Sam. Dean's not-so-little-anymore brother. A sigh escapes his mouth and he slides his sword back in its scabbard. Here comes the drama.

"Are you fucking suicidal, Dean? What was that?! I was sure you were dead! I spent hours searching for you! Fuck you for scaring me like that, I..."

His brother would continue bellowing insanities for hours if Dean didn't stop him. Raising a hand to shut up his brother, he says in a clipped voice and more than a little annoyed:

"Impala would never let me die."

That effectively stops Sam's rant. For a grand total of three seconds.

Sam's gigantic arms flail wildly around the place, effectively waking up Rumsfeld. The groan of the unhappy dragon doesn't make Sam pause at all. Even when a small ball of fire lands near his feet. He just puts it out with his foot. One of the advantages of being a dragonrider: you are always prepared for a fire.

"That's beside the point. You know you should have been there to deliver the Prince to the King."

Dean rolls his eyes. The Prince was a grown man. He should have been perfectly capable of going to his bed safely on his own, no need to have dozens of guards around him.

"Gabe could do it."

"That's not it, Dean. You're the Captain." Sam totally ignores his _don't start with this now_. "You were supposed to do it."

"Why does it matter who did it? The Prince is home, everyone is safe and Crowley is defeated for now. Everyone's happy!" he nearly shouts. He's getting tired of all of this. Getting tired of duties and princes. There's a threat coming and he doesn't want to hear his brother berating him because he did a poor job at babysitting.

"It's _protocol_ , Dean."

"Well, fuck protocol, then." he snaps. "I'm tired and I don't have time for this shit." Turning towards Bobby who looks at them like a disappointed parent, he says: "I'll talk to you tomorrow. I'm going to bed."

Of course, Sam comes stomping right after him. They share a house after all.

Fuck. This is going to be a long night.

 

***

 

Twelve hours of respite is apparently too much to ask for. He's cranky and pissed (thanks to Sam) when the envoy comes to him. He should be training with other soldiers right about now – no, riding a dragon doesn't exempt you from being a soldier – and work off some of that frustration but of course peace is not for Winchesters. He's currently tending to (or rather trying to tend) Impala's right wing, a task rendered quite difficult because his girl is a fussy dragon who doesn't like salves. Her right wing has always been a bit weaker and easier to get hurt since the accident that nearly killed her, but she's stubborn and keeps flying too long and too hard, despite knowing perfectly she's not in top condition. And it's always Dean's job to fix her, even when she doesn't want to.

So it's with a big 14 feet black wing in his lap and dragon drool on his clothes that he not-so-warmly welcomes the royal envoy.

"Captain Winchester?"

"What?" he answers in a gruff voice, clearly not in the mood, before he lifts up his eyes to look at the intruder. The envoy is just a young man, maybe fourteen or fifteen years old. He eyes Impala carefully, like he's afraid she's going to attack at any moment. Of course, she relishes in it and only takes a more menacing posture, her teeth showing. The envoy visibly flinches. Poor kid. He quickly compose himself, however, and says in a clear (and only slightly trembling) voice:

"His Majesty summons you for an audience in the Great Hall."

Dean hides his surprise by forcing some salve onto the wound, taking advantage of Impala's distraction. She growls unhappily when she feels the smelly paste on her skin and flicks her tail at him. Dean smiles triumphantly despite the pain. Rider 1, dragon 0. Job done, he wipes his hands on a nearby towel. It really stinks.

"Alright. Right now?"

The envoy seems lost and terrified of ignoring the answer. He stammers:

"He didn't say, Captain."

Dean huffs. Better be going now. The sooner, the better.

"Okay. I'm coming right now." Or, well, just after a change of clothes, perhaps. And some shaving and combing maybe.

 

***

 

It's in chainmail, surcoat, leather gloves and boots and with his sword buckled to his hip that Dean goes to the King. Dean is no knight and he shouldn't have a coat of arms but since he's considered a noble of foreign origin (all Gabriel's fault and also a lie to appease the distrustful nobles), the King ordered the court's weavers to fashion Dean's surcoat with some specialists' input or whatever. All in all, his coat of arms is composed of a red standing wyvern on black. It's simple and, if Dean is honest with himself, quite to his taste, but he doesn't wear it very often. It's only for official encounters with the King – like right now – and ceremonies, when he has to remind the Edenish court that, yes, he may be a Norseman but he _is_ the Captain of the Garrison, like it or not, so just kindly _fuck off_.

The walk to the castle is thankfully short, no guard interrupting him on his way, and he is soon in front of the gigantic double-door of the Great Hall, waiting for someone to announce him.

"Captain Winchester."

As soon as he is admitted in the Great Hall, Dean congratulates himself on wearing the surcoat and shaving just before because it's not a private audience at all. Nobles are aligned along the grey stone walls of the Great Hall, chattering enthusiastically between themselves until they see Dean and fall silent. The Great Hall is packed and Dean can barely distinguish the tapestries on the walls with all the people here; the bad weather and dim light barely filtering from the coloured glass windows not helping at all. The King is there, on his throne and his ceremonial clothes, surrounded by candles that that make his crown shine, his brother, Duke Raphael, his wife and sons on his left and the Crown Prince and the Princess on his right. Dean quickly notices Gabriel is missing. He doesn't know what to make of that.

The King seems a bit taken aback by his entrance, his blue eyes widening slightly at Impala's presence at his side. Dean has quickly learned that bringing Impala with him is always an advantage. No one wants to piss off the guy with the dragon.

"Your Majesty." he salutes respectfully, before bowing to the King. Thankfully, Impala follows his lead, this time.

When he straightens his back and quickly scans the dais, his eyes linger on the Prince. Now that he is shaven, fed and wearing fitting clothes (dark blue and gold and richly decorated), the man looks less like a frightened drowned rat and more like a man. Or rather a Prince. The Prince sits straight in his chair, colour and vigour returned to his cheeks, expression carefully schooled. He looks regal, confident and cold, so very different from the snarky and frightened man he was yesterday. Though the stunning blue eyes are exactly the same, Dean notices; they must run in the family. However, Dean secretly thinks that King Charles' blue is duller and Lady Naomi's, colder.

"Captain Winchester," the King greets him. "Thank you for coming so quickly. I see your dragon is in better health, now. It is well." What? How did he know Impala was hurt? Dean only discovered the wound this morning. "I am glad to see you accomplished your mission so successfully. You have all my gratitude for saving my son's life. I do not know where we would be without you."

Dean bows again a little. Never underestimate the thankfulness of a King. "It was a honour, Your Majesty. I am glad Prince Castiel is safe and sound in Eden once again."

Duke Raphael scowls. Dean files it away and concentrates on the King. Somehow, he feels that this is not the only reason why he's being summoned. There wouldn't be so many nobles if it only was for giving his thanks. He bizarrely feels like he's being played and he doesn't like it one bit.

"You and your garrison..." Dean never liked that word either, they're not his subordinates, they're his _family_. He grits his teeth. "...may ask for any privilege, reasonable and in my capacity, of course."

He hears some gasps and exclamations coming from the audience. It is quite a favour the King does him there but Dean knows better than push for it. He's not the greedy vicious pirate some stubborn and ignorant Edenish think he is. He intends to prove them wrong. Once again. Sometimes, it feels like he's being fighting against prejudice all his life.

"I will discuss it with them, Your Majesty, but I don't think we'll ask for a favour. We are already very grateful for your good hospitality as it is."

"Modesty is a very much approved virtue in Eden." Dean could have sworn he saw the King smile for one brief moment. But King Charles only nods his head determinedly, like he has come to some kind of conclusion. "This is why I think you are the perfect man for this job, Captain." Dean eyes him warily, watching the King shoot a venomous glare towards his brother. That doesn't sound promising.

"What job, if I may ask, Your Majesty?"

"My son wishes to know more about dragons and eventually, he wishes to become a dragonrider and train the dragon you gave me as a gift when you came here. You are to teach him."

There are surprised gasps and furious whispers in the audience and no effort from the king can shut it down completely but Dean pays them no mind. He has another bigger problem on his plate than the Edenish reaction to their Prince soon becoming a dragonrider.

Dean can't help fixing an incredulous gaze on the Prince, he's just a second short of dropping his jaw to the floor. He thought he was terrified of dragons, _hated_ dragons. He clearly hadn't trusted Impala yesterday. Why would he want to ride a dragon now? On his own? And a _Monstrous Nightmare_ at that? Even Dean has never ridden one of these dragons. They _light themselves on fire_ for Odin's sake! The Prince wouldn't last one second on one of these and Dean doesn't want to be blamed for the death of an extra-crispy Crown Prince, thank you very much.

"I'm...I am flattered, Your Majesty, but shouldn't...wouldn't Lord Gabriel be more qualified for this task? He is your nephew and a good rider and..."

The King stops him by raising his hand. He has more gold and jewels on his fingers than Dean ever saw in Laurrsnes. Sometimes, it makes him bitter. He knows what the men of his island would say. _Whore_. Whore of a Christian King. Devil worshipper and whore. He swallows the bitterness in his mouth. He shouldn't think about this now. The King. He has to focus on the King.

"My nephew will soon depart to negotiate a alliance with a neighbouring kingdom, he won't have time to teach Castiel. And after all, _you_ are the Dragon Master, aren't you?" finishes the King, with a real small smile, this time. He's won and he knows it.

It's petty, using this title against him. The Edenish call him Captain or Sir, when they think he's a knight. Only his people call him Dragon Master. It's the only title he allows, the only one he really answers to. King Charles is devious.

"I..." His throat doesn't seem to work for a second. How can you say no to a king? "Yes, Your Majesty, I am." he admits, defeated. His head bows of its own accord. He hears Impala's soft groan but he ignores it. He knows she's trying to understand what's wrong, trying to comfort him but now is not the time.

The King claps his hands together, a satisfied smile on his lips. His blue eyes shines in the candlelight.

"Good, then. The training will begin tomorrow."

_You should shut up, you should shut up, you should shut the fuck up._

Dean moves forward, hands held in a helpless gesture. "Your Majesty." _Damn you, mouth._ "What of the patrols? We are already so few, I can't just leave them..."

There's a snort at the left of the King and Dean turns his head towards Duke Raphael, the King's brother. If possible, he's donned even richer clothes than the King, all dark silk and delicate furs. His clean-cut stoic face doesn't hold any of the warmth that inhabits the King or even his children. He has only ever shown contempt for Dean's family and the dragons. He's a cruel man and he has heard some people murmur Duke Raphael doesn't actually have a heart. That he believes himself to be the reincarnation of an Archangel and therefore above everyone and everything – including his own brother. He has never liked Dean and Dean has never liked him.

"Eden was an already very powerful kingdom, even before your arrival. We have a strong army and navy. We will perfectly survive without your flying snakes."

Dean grits his teeth at the insult and restrains himself to stay calm. Impala is not so controlled and groans ferociously in the King's brother's direction. Duke Raphael was always the most opposed to the dragons' presence in Eden. But such arrogance and dismissal is pure provocation. He can feel all the nobles and the royal family's eyes on him and Impala. It feels like little pinpricks on his skin, his neck. He places a placating hand on his dragon's head. The last thing he needs right now is a scene. Thankfully, Impala quickly calms herself, even though she keeps glaring at Raphael. Serves him right.

"Raphael." admonishes the King, to his credit, seemingly unperturbed. "Captain Winchester's dragons should be shown more respect. They, after all, saved Castiel. The ships _you_ sent were all crashed during the storm. Do I need to remind you that your men were saved by those same dragons? And, may I add, that without them, Castiel could very well not be alive?"

The King's words are polite but Dean can feel the testiness in them and guesses only too well that the King has no great love for his brother if he's willing to publicly humiliate him in this manner. No one says anything but Dean observes the royal family and he can almost see the triumphant glint in the Princess' eyes and the smile that threatens to spread on the Prince's lips. Raphael's sons, however, are clearly livid.

Returning his attention on Dean, the King says, on a bored tone:

"Can't you train new recruits?"

"We don't have any dragon egg to hatch or wild dragon to train, Your Majesty." Dean replies honestly. If dragons are quite common in the North – they're pests, really – Dean has only ever seen two dragons near the kingdom of Eden and it was far up north, in the cold sea. Dean doubts he can capture _and_ train a Scauldron or a gigantic Thunderdrum. Those beasts are fucking huge. Also, there aren't many Edenish men (since women don't fight in Eden...stupid Christians) willing to ride a dragon. Most of them consider them creatures of evil. Victor and Gabriel were just very fortunate exceptions.

"And your...uncle, Robert Singer? Can't he take charge while you're gone? Or maybe your brother, Lieutenant Samuel?" the King enquires. He doesn't seem to be losing his patience, which is good.

"Bobby and his dragon are old, Your Majesty. They can protect the city without problem but long journeys will tire them. And my brother is a great lieutenant, but he's too young to plan the patrols. You have to understand, Your Majesty, it takes months, _years_ to properly learn about dragons and train them. Lord Gabriel was still in training when we came to Eden and Sir Victor's dragon was already tamed by us when he was recruited." He hesitates. "A Monstrous Nightmare is a...very very difficult dragon, Your Majesty. They are a very powerful and aggressive species. This is why it is said only a strong chief can measure up to them."

The King leans forward in his throne, both hands gripping the armrests, a dark expression on his face. He looks suddenly very menacing. His voice is low and threatening when he speaks again.

"So, basically, you are saying you are refusing to teach my son, Captain?"

_Oh fuck, no, no, no._

"No, not at all, Your Majesty!" Dean says hurriedly, hands raised in a placating gesture. He turns briefly his glance to the Prince. The blue eyes bore into him, unflinching. "But Prince Castiel will have to work with the other riders and on his own too, not just with me."

The King sits back in his throne, pondering about Dean's words. He turns his head towards his son, who still hasn't stopped staring at Dean. It makes him uncomfortable.

"Is it acceptable to you, son?"

The Prince is forced to tear his gaze away from Dean to look at his father. He frowns at the proposition but agrees nonetheless after a few seconds. Dean could have sworn he seemed a bit disappointed, though. He doesn't dwell on this.

"It is acceptable, father."

"Good! When can you begin the training, Captain?"

Dean hesitates. Impala nudges him a little.

"I...with the theory, we could begin right away, Your Majesty."

"Theory?" scoffs Raphael. "Those are mounts, like horses, you don't need _theory_ to learn how to ride them unless you're retarded or a fool."

As predicted, the nobles laugh at the Duke's _joke_ and Dean feels anger boil in his veins. The Duke smiles, apparently very proud of himself. He has had enough of this man's contempt. He doesn't try to hide his scorn when he addresses him.

"If I may correct you, _Your Grace_ ," Dean sneers. "a dragon is far more complicated than a horse. All the horses you have here are already tamed and docile beasts, used to the presence of man. A _retarded_ person or a _fool_ can perfectly ride them, certainly. However, dragons are wild, proud and smart creatures, they do not bend easily to the whims of men. Every dragon is unique. Its abilities, its fire, its behaviour, its type of flight, its fighting style. You don't train a Whispering Death the same way you train a Gronckle. You have to learn them first and then gain their trust. They will never let a human ride them if they do not trust them. They are intelligent creatures, Your Grace, far more intelligent than some humans, even." The _far more intelligent than you_ is left unsaid but very much implied. Raphael's hideous scowl tells Dean the Duke got the message loud and clear. Good. "If you only show disdain for them, they will at best ignore you, at worse, eat you or kill you."

A sadistic smile spreads on Raphael's lips. It's ugly and vile and Dean dreads what he's going to say. He can feel Impala literally vibrate with energy right beside him.

"You can always trap them and force them to listen. Beat them and break them until they know who their master is. I hear other... _clans_ do it."

Dean goes livid. He shouts, indignant. "It's an abomination! Dragons are intelligent beings, they..."

Raphael suddenly stands up, tall and powerful and menacing. There's a tense and sudden silence in the Hall. Even the King seems uncomfortable. He tries to calm down his brother, unsuccessfully.

"They're _mounts_ , Captain. Not pets. Maybe you should remember that when teaching our Prince. Lest he become too _soft_."

That's the moment Impala choses to let out a powerful roar. A high-pitched sound is the only warning the Duke gets before a ball of blue-purple gas explodes near him, shattering the gilded wood to pieces. All the people in the Great Hall are stunned and watching them fearfully.

Dean moves resolutely forward, Impala right beside him, and when he steps on the dais, steps on the stairs that lead to the throne, he hears muted and shocked exclamations. _He's going to kill the King! Stop him! Stop him!_ Four guards rapidly rush to them but Impala snarls at them viciously, teeth bared and wings now wide open in a menacing stance. Their courage falter visibly and they stay petrified, swords hanging uselessly in their hands. He can see the Princess' horrified and terrified expression, both hands in front of her mouth as if she is trying to not scream. The King and the Prince are wearing almost similar expressions of disbelief. But there is no real fear in their eyes, no terror, only slight anxiety. They believe in him, they _trust_ him. Dean feels powerful.

He's only a few inches from Raphael now, and the splintered wood crunches satisfyingly under his boots. He can see all the hatred, all the contempt directed at him in the Duke's dark eyes. There's no fear in there. Only wrath and vengeance. Dean lifts up his chin, his eyes shining with defiance. He may not be a Duke or a Prince, but he is Dean, son of John, son of Mary, and he will never let himself be walked over by _anyone_.

On a very low voice, as to be only heard by the Duke, Dean says carefully:

"I think it is _you_ who should remember that they are capable of killing you if you disrespect them, Your Grace. Are you the new Dragon Master?" With a last smile, he clicks his tongue to call his dragon, who comes quickly to him and promptly gets on Impala, still hissing furiously towards Raphael. Dean turns his head in direction of the King. He will not bow. He will not submit. But he will be respectful, at least. "If I may go, Your Majesty?" he asks, loud and clear. The King nods dumbly, eyes glued to the portion of blasted wood just a few inches beside Raphael's ear. No doubt has he realised now that Impala could very well have killed him, if she had wanted to.

Addressing to the Prince, he says: "I'll see you soon, Your Royal Highness." 

He only touches Impala's neck to get his dragon to fly. Fortunately, they left the Great Hall doors open. He wastes no time. He flies past the nobles, past the guards, leaving a wisp of wind behind him and shoots towards the cloudless sky.

Now if only he had a guide on how to train a Prince.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, I did not misspell Hell, this is just a rather lame play on the word. Hel (or Helheim) is one of the Norse lands of the dead for those who were not good in their life (a bit like the Christian Hell). Valhalla is the Norse "Paradise" for the brave warriors who died in combat and Niflheim is the afterlife tor those who did not die of a heroic or notable death (disease or old age). There are many many different types of afterlife in Norse mythology depending on the sources so please, just roll with these few. As for gods...Rán is the Norse goddess of the sea, wife of Ægir, known to capture men who venture out at sea. Ægir is also a Norse god of the sea and husband to Rán, he represents good aspects of the sea. Njörðr is a Norse god of the sea and winds. And of course, you all know Thor, god of thunder.
> 
> If you hadn't already guessed, Laurrsnes is home to Sam and Dean. It's just Lawrence with a few twists to make it sound "Viking". As for Drekarheim, it simply means home of dragons. Everything is totally unprofessional since I'm not an expert at all in Old Norse. Dean's coat of arms was not intended to look like the Targaryen sigil but since the colours appealed to me (red: eagerness to serve his country, warrior and martyr; black: grief and resistance), I chose to keep them. Bobby's dragon is a [Gronckle](http://img3.wikia.nocookie.net/__cb20140305205647/howtotrainyourdragon/images/0/0b/Gronckle02.png), even though I took the liberty to give him some [Hotburple](https://www.howtotrainyourdragon.com/images/uploads/dragons/grump_gallery.jpeg) characteristics, namely his size and love for rocks and metal (the two species are very close anyway). As for the [Scauldron](http://img1.wikia.nocookie.net/__cb20121016200611/howtotrainyourdragon/images/8/8d/Dragons_bod_scauldron_background_sketch-1-.png) and the [gigantic Thunderdrum](http://img2.wikia.nocookie.net/__cb20140404161006/howtotrainyourdragon/images/c/c5/Toothless_thunderdrum_gallery1.jpg) (there are smaller ones), they are both very big sea dragons. And finally, the [Monstrous Nightmare](http://img4.wikia.nocookie.net/__cb20140305205014/howtotrainyourdragon/images/2/29/Monstrous-Nightmare-nightmare02.png) is the most powerful and dangerous dragon known in the first HTTYD film (with the exception of the Red Death), although this changes in the TV series and the sequel. In the books, by unofficial Viking law, only the chief, or the son of the chief, can own a Monstrous Nightmare.
> 
> Oh and the first fruit pies were made in the 1500's or maybe in the 1300's. For Dean's sake, please ignore this twist to history. You gotta give the man his pie.


	4. How to Get Oneself in a Dungeon Cell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Some say dragons are evil men condemned to serpentine form by the gods or a curse, like Fáfnir. Some say they are the sons of Jörmungandr. From where I come from, we tell a different tale."

Being clean again was Heaven.

He was soaking in the tub, the water rapidly growing colder by the minute but still pleasantly warm, not boiling-hot like at the beginning. Servants would soon come to fill up the tub with hot water anyway. Or maybe fill up a whole new bath. The grime in there was thoroughly disgusting. He was pretty sure the water would be brown by the time he got out of it. But that was for later. As it was, he was content to just relax for the moment. Warmth seeped into his bones, unwound his muscles, warmed up his soul. With the grime, all the anxiety and fear and disappointment he had felt those last sixteen days were washed away. Leaving him pure and clean once again. His head hit softly the tub's edge and a soft sigh escaped his mouth. Heaven.

His conversation with his father had gone...better than he had expected. Apparently, his father was happy to let him fly solo on a fire-breathing beast as long as Castiel promised to meet prospective wives. Castiel had already resigned himself to a new endless parades of girls and women of noble birth long before that so really, it wasn't such a chore. And if everything went according to plan, he would soon see another beautiful face, one he'd much rather look at, every day.

You can mix pleasure with work, right?

He heard a light knock and some shuffling. Like he had predicted, a new servant quickly came from his door to pour hot water in his bath, averting his eyes. Castiel sighed in contentment when the water touched his skin. Warmth. Warmth was good. Out of habit, he let his fingers trail through the water...before the sudden burn made him hiss in pain. Damn. He seemed to always forget his wounds.

Before his bath, his damaged hands had been quickly washed, healed and bandaged by the court's healer. The man had been so thorough Castiel had felt like he had two enormous cotton balls instead of hands. Grabbing anything was Hell, he had been so clumsy he had broken at least two bottles of perfume. It had gotten so frustrating he had ended up asking one servant to leave the bandages to the bare minimum. His fingers were stiff and aching but at least he could move them now. He hoped they would heal soon.

The Prince was so relaxed and comfortable he almost drowned into the water – a feat, considering the water only reached him mid-torso when sat in the tub. It would have been a pretty ridiculous death since he had just gotten rescued from his mortal enemy by dragons and Castiel did not intend to have his dead body look like a shrivelled prune. With a little difficulty but refusing the help of the servants, he heaved himself out of the water (which was now almost cold) and ended up dripping on the cold grey stones and warming up in front of a roaring fire, eyes closed and almost falling asleep again, two servants taking care of drying him gently. His skin was red and raw and sensitive, but it was good feeling clean and fresh once again. Sixteen days on the road, alone and lost, was too long and now that he was home and safe, all the adrenaline that had kept him going, kept him fighting, was dissolving, leaving him an exhausted mess.

When he finally lifted his eyes to look at himself in the polished mirror placed in front of his face, his extra facial hair had been shaven, his hair washed and combed and he was wearing his own clothes once again, soft and warm against his skin, so different from the dirty rags he had donned on the road. He almost looked like his normal self, if a bit thinner and paler and with dark shadows under his eyes. A good night of sleep would without doubt remedy those.

His father had him brought food while Castiel was taking his bath. Bread, broth (now a little cold) and cheese, with honeyed spiced wine. Castiel hadn't properly eaten in days and such a simple meal had him quickly full and almost sick. The healer had rapidly come in, at the request of one of the servants and had explained to Castiel that his body was exhausted and it would be better if he took things slow for a few days. No strenuous exercise, no too rich food and a lot of rest. Castiel was happy to comply to all the recommendations. A priest came to pray for his speedy recovery while the Prince was in bed, practically asleep. The feather mattress was definitely better than the dry leaves and old straw he had slept on, when he was lucky, during his journey. It was like sleeping on a cloud. Though that now he _knew_ what a cloud felt like...he much preferred the feather mattress.

Not ten minutes after his servants left his room had passed was his bed dipping with the weight of another body. He grunted and turned his face in his pillows. What now? Would anyone stop bothering him so he could actually _rest_? The possibility of another attempted kidnapping or attack was so far off his mind he didn't even think to panic. He wanted to sleep, damn it.

"Castiel?" a timid voice asked. A very feminine and familiar voice. He blinked.

"Anna?" he asked before rolling over, rubbing his eyes and shading them from the candlelight.

Even in the dim light, he could clearly recognise her fiery hair and hazel eyes. While Castiel had favoured their father and grandfather's looks – dark hair and blue eyes, stern and sharp features, typical of the Angeles bloodline –, Anna had inherited her looks from their mother. Sometimes it astonished him how much they were alike. Anna was sixteen and still had some childlike features, with the baby fat in her cheeks and her soft delicate lips, looking more like a beautiful and fragile little doll than a lady, but she was already a remarkable fair woman. Her suitors were numerous and quite vocal in their intent, much to Castiel's dismay. In his mind, she was still his baby sister. He didn't want any old man looking for gold and titles near her.

"Are you too tired? I can come back tomorrow if you prefer." she asked, quickly grabbing her robe to leave.

Castiel sat up more correctly at this, trying to shake off his tiredness. He gave Anna a small smile and awkwardly squeezed her hand. He had missed his little sister.

"No, no, it's okay. Stay." After a second of reflection, he added, a bit sheepishly. "Though I can't promise I won't fall back asleep. A dragon's back is hardly an ideal place to take a nap."

An excited grin blossomed on his sister's lips before she quickly gathered her robe in her hands and climbed onto his bed, sat cross-legged on the covers, her blue-green robe spread around her like a flower. It was so unladylike that Castiel had to crack a smile at that.

"So you were really on a dragon, then? Gabriel's?" she whispered, like it was a secret. Castiel shook his head, smiling. It felt like they were children again, trading secrets and stories in the dark, sneaking into each other's room when they felt too lonely or like their bed was too big.

Once, Castiel had had other brothers and sisters but the Angel of Death had taken them all when they were still young, still babes. He had grown up alone, in an adult world with lessons to prepare him for kingship. As the heir, he had never been a fosterling to another noble house as his father was too afraid to lose the only child he had. King Charles was not a bad father but he had been overprotective of Castiel, overwhelming him with his love and paranoia, sometimes. Castiel had been a solitary and reclusive child with no friends when Anna had been born. He had been determined to not get attached to the little screaming ball that was his baby sister, convinced that she would not survive the week. She had been born too early, was too small, too fragile – nobody had expected little Anna to live.

But she had lived. She had fought tooth and nail to survive, to keep on drawing breath. But instead of the joyous melody of the bells ringing to inform the population of the new royal baby, it was the sad song of morning that had resonated through Eden that fateful night. Unfortunately, Anna's birth had been marred by a tragic event: the Queen's death. Weakened by successive miscarriages and Anna's difficult birth, she had drawn her last breath in King Charles' arms, with a last sad small smile and the name of her daughter on her lips.

His father had never been the same after that. Grief-stricken and broken-hearted, he had lost the will to fight against Queen Eve. Letting his generals and his brother carry on the war without him, the fate of the Kingdom had been bleak, at best. Perdition had been lost to Crowley and Queen Eve had started a war with Eden, hungry for richer lands and gold. It had taken Castiel's abduction to finally rouse the King from his slumber and have him ask for the help of the Northerners.

Castiel had grown without a mother and without the attention of a father. There had been war on every side, no time to spare to entertain a child and the weight on his shoulders had been enormous – the possibility of his father dying on the battlefield and him having to sit on the vacant throne. At thirteen, he had not felt ready to carry the weight of a dying kingdom on his frail shoulders. Anna had been an escape, a refuge. With her, he could simply be a big brother and not a king-to-be. He had been terrified of her leaving too, like his poor other brothers and sisters, like his mother. And so he took care of her, watched over her when no lessons or councils awaited him. He watched her grow and he learned to love her, ferociously and unconditionally. After the war ended, he spent even more time with her, watching her learn and play and talk, leaving the Kingdom and the politics to his father. The older they got, the closer they became, more friends than simply children related by blood. Anna was his to protect and shield away from the world. It was Anna who had taught him to smile, laugh and enjoy life. Anna, who had made him what he was now.

He missed those times, when Anna was still so young and Castiel not so much pressured by his responsibilities. Innocent times.

"No, the Captain's. Big black beast. Very strong personality."

Anna nodded silently, seemingly lost in thought, probably trying to imagine the creature. Like Castiel before today, she had never seen Eden's dragons since they tended to stay away from the capital. Castiel didn't know exactly where they lived, just that it was far off the city centre and on the coast, on the point nearest to Perdition. Eden's people feared them and they were still considered too dangerous to be approached by a Princess. The tale that said dragons stole princesses and maidens didn't really help the matter, either.

Good thing Castiel was male. Less risk of being kidnapped by a greedy dragon. His father was progressive but even Castiel knew the King would never allow Anna near one of those creatures. That he had allowed Castiel to ride one was already a miracle. Come to think of it, after all, Gabriel rode one and he was fine. Castiel was more capable at arms than his cousin so logically he should be alright. Right?

Without his consent, his mind began wandering on dangerous paths. Namely, what if his dragon wanted to eat him alive? Gabriel's dragon seemed harmless enough but what if his dragon was a savage beast? What if it liked devouring humans? What if it didn't obey him? What if after so long asleep it didn't want anything to do with humanity? What if it rebelled against him? What if...

"What was it like? Being on a dragon?"

Anna's chirpy voice startled him out of his sombre musings. He had to take a few seconds to process the question and when he did, Castiel shuddered at the memory. He could almost still feel the cold in his bones. Instinctively, he clutched his furs closer to his body.

"Scary. They fly so fast and so _high_. It was so cold and the wind was so strong. Honestly, I was too afraid and paralysed to enjoy the ride. I feared I might fall into the sea if I dared move one finger." He shuddered and shook his head. He was seriously reconsidering his decision. Was he really ready to do this? On his own? It had been terrifying enough with Dean but alone and on an untamed dragon, what would it be like? Death. Death was awaiting him. He placed a hand on his forehead and mumbled. "I think I'm insane."

Anna tilted her head a little to the right, unsurprised by his brother's declaration. She had heard worse in sixteen years. And Castiel had always been a bit melodramatic anyway.

"Why?"

Castiel grimaced. This promised to be an eventful conversation. He wouldn't get any beauty sleep any time soon.

Anna's reaction to the news was...predictable, he guessed. At first, she was surprised, shocked even. _How did it even crossed your mind?_ Then gleeful. _I can't believe you're going to ride a dragon! You have to show me! Promise me you'll let me ride with you, promise?_ Then apprehensive. _Is it risk-free? Are you sure you can handle it?_ Then inquisitive and suspicious. _Why do you suddenly want to ride one now, brother?_

For almost an hour, they discussed about it. The more they talked, the lighter he felt, the surer he became. His sister was young but she had more interest in courtly matters and politics than Castiel. While he was content to follow his father's path, be a good soldier, his sister wanted change and questioned decisions and traditions, questioned authority – even their father's, sometimes. She had always been a little rebellious, a little wild. Maybe because their father had always been so lenient and accommodating. Maybe because she never had a mother to teach her how to be a proper lady. Maybe because she had always been more at ease with Castiel than with other noble girls. As the only woman of the Angeles family, with the exception of their aunt Naomi who lived in a province in the South-West, Anna had always been surrounded by men. She knew the ways of war better than she knew the art of needling, was more interested in wandering the woods than in learning how to sing. Anna would have made a fine leader if women could rule in Eden and if she had been born first. As it was, Anna was his most fervent supporter and never failed to point out to him his mistakes, which sometimes stung quite deeply. Whenever she saw that she had hurt Castiel, she added, almost jokingly _don't worry brother, I'll be your most faithful adviser!_ And there was no doubt in their minds that when Castiel would become King, Anna would be just at his right side.

After that, though, they spoke about safer and simpler topics. He told her about the play he had seen in one village reconstituting the war with Queen Eve, with brightly coloured wood-and-cloth dragons. He told her about Jimmy, about the delicious meat and bread he ate in one tavern – _I believe they called them burgers_ –, about the generosity of a baker who gave him a loaf of bread from the day before for free when money had become scarce, about April, about the night sky and the stars and the peace he had found in the countryside, about the peculiar but endearing commoners' accent, about the calm and tranquillity he had found in watching the bees.

He did not talk about his sore feet or the muddy roads or how he didn't eat for a few days because he didn't have any money left. He didn't tell her he had been sleeping on the road and under the rain that last day, the day April had found him. His journey had not be all glamorous but Anna did not need to know any of that. She already eyed his hands and thinner frame with pity and he didn't want more of it.

Finally, two hours after her arrival, Anna left him to rest with a light kiss and a soft good night.

Castiel fell asleep shortly after that.

 

***

 

Castiel was in love.

He was staring at the Captain and he knew it wasn't a very good idea and it was unbecoming but he couldn't help himself. Very few people had ever had the courage to stand up to Raphael and Dean was literally _defying_ his uncle without even showing remorse, polite and caustic at the same time. The Captain was respectful towards the King but at every cutting remark from his uncle, Castiel could see the beginning of a storm forming in the green eyes. Like yesterday, it was surprisingly the dragon who took the remarks the most personally and reacted the most violently. Dean had calmed the she-dragon with just a gesture but Castiel was no fool. They were both brimming with fury. How could the creature understand them so perfectly was beyond the Prince's comprehension. But he was glad that the Captain kept her in check. Showing up to the Great Hall with the dragon in tow and dressed up for war was...bold, to say the least. Castiel had no doubt the nobles were divided between horror, anger and awe. Few of them had ever seen a dragon from so close. And when she was angry, Impala didn't quite look so adorable anymore.

When Raphael talked about beating and breaking dragons to obtain their obedience, Castiel knew it was the wrong thing to say. His damaged hands gripped his armrests tightly and he waited with bated breath Dean's reaction. His uncle wanted to prove his point, to show his superiority in front of the court but he had taken the wrong adversary for that. Beside him, his father tried to calm down Raphael, in vain.

Castiel had honestly not expected Impala to _blast_ Raphael's chair. Rage was swirling in the pale yellowy-green eyes and the dragon was rearing back, mouth wide open and wings at full span, teeth and claws gleaming in the candlelight. No doubt the nobles were thinking the beast had gone insane, as insane as her master.

Her master who didn't deter her at all from frightening the whole audience but was _advancing toward the dais and threatening his uncle_. Castiel watched him, captivated and anxious. He had always prided himself on being able to maintain a perfectly schooled face, never revealing his true feelings. That carefully maintained control was shattering to pieces.

A cold anger seemed to have seized the Captain and rider and dragon were now moving effortlessly on the stairs, their movements perfectly in sync. It was like they were just an extension of one another, two parts of a whole. It was beautiful and terrifying and oddly arousing.

And now was really not a good time to be aroused. Especially when the black dragon had just blasted the the gilded chair on which his uncle had been sitting. A piece of wood had landed near Castiel's feet – he was not ready to look at the damage. He swallowed a bit difficultly but couldn't tear his eyes from the Captain, even if his life had depended on it.

He was moving towards Raphael – some fool alarmed the guards he was going for the King; couldn't they see Dean only had eyes for the his uncle? –, regal and terrible. Like yesterday, Impala had a threatening posture and in the Great Hall, in front of all the court, it seemed suddenly a lot more dangerous than on a field outside the city. Dean was playing a very dangerous game.

When the Captain leaned towards Raphael, the audience held their breath, fearing a murder or something equally morbid. Castiel couldn't hear what the Captain was whispering to his uncle but seeing the outrage and hate on his face when Dean stepped back was enough. Dean wouldn't be the one doing the killing, Raphael would.

But before his uncle could react or even protest, Dean got swiftly on Impala and asked permission to leave. His father, too stunned by the whole mess agreed without really looking at him.

And then, Dean met his eyes. The vibrant green was mesmerising in its intensity, swirling fire of emerald and gold and Castiel felt his breathing stop and a fist close over his heart in his chest. He was going to fly away, to leave and he would never come back. Castiel would never see those eyes again. _Don't go_ , he wanted to beg. _Stay._ The words were already halfway through his throat when Dean nodded in his direction and said on a cold – so cold – and formal tone:

"I'll see you soon, Your Royal Highness."

The last word had barely escaped his mouth that the black beast had sharply turned away from them and leapt from the stairs gracefully. Two large jet black wings snapped open even wider above her body, eliciting gasps from the audience. Impala turned her head one last time to shoot a mean look at Raphael and then suddenly took flight. Rider and dragon were soon shooting towards the entrance, bypassing guards and nobles, leaving a gust of wind and startled cries behind them.

To his right, Anna gasped in surprise and searched for his hand, treading her fingers between his but Castiel could barely pay any attention to her, barely pay any attention to the court. His mind was still reeling with what just happened, his vision still full of black leathery wings and green fury. He only realised his fingers were shaking when Anna pressed her hand harder against his. She shoot him a worried look. Castiel only gave her a weak smile, hoping to convene as much reassurance as he was able to. He needed time to process this.

But his uncle had never been the patient type.

Raphael's back was facing him and Castiel could easily read the violence and anger in his tense posture, in his closed fists, in the low growl coming from his mouth that the Duke didn't seem aware of producing. In his rage, Raphael turned abruptly toward the King, dark eyes glaring daggers at his brother. With a gloved hand, he gestured angrily in direction of the still open doors and shouted above the babble of voices:

"Brother! I demand to have this man's head on a pike! He threatened a member of the royal family!"

King Charles turned slowly his gaze to his fuming brother, eyes clear and carefully devoid of any emotion, hands lax. He seemed to have recovered far more quickly than Castiel. The King slowly rose from his throne, the ermine cloak softly rustling in his wake, and the tumult of voices suddenly quieted down. His father's face was like stone, hard and impassive. In a clear and steadfast voice, he said:

"I will do not such thing, brother." The Hall erupted in shocked exclamations. The King carried on, imperturbable. "You provoked Captain Winchester. You've been trying to pick a quarrel with him since the day he arrived in Eden. He _saved_ Castiel. He saved _your men_. And he spared you even though he could have easily killed you and fly away without fear of any retribution." The King's voice had been steadily growing stronger and stronger with each word but his head was now softly dipping down. After a pause and in a softer, almost guilty tone, he added. "However, he will be punished."

Castiel turned a startled look to his father, mouth almost gaping. He could barely believe what he had heard. Punished? No! How could his father do this? How could he betray him? Dean had done nothing wrong! Just as he was rising to his feet to denounce the injustice of his father's decision, Castiel felt Anna's fingers tugging him, urging him to calm himself. He turned sharply towards her but she shook her head minutely and whispered _"don't"_. Castiel gritted his teeth but sat back in his chair and waited for his father's judgement.

"Captain Winchester will be confined to the castle for a week and separated from his dragon. He will receive no visits except for Prince Castiel's lessons. The beast is to remain in a cage during this time."

Castiel slowly exhaled, relieved. He was shaking in his seat with the sudden leave of anxiety. A week of confinement. It was barely a punishment. No beating or lashing. No public humiliation. No exile. No execution. Dean Winchester would live and he would be fine. He would stay in Eden, safe and unharmed.

Breathing more easily now, Castiel made a mental note: he would have to thank his father for his clemency later.

However, as one would have assumed, Raphael didn't take the judgement as well as Castiel had. He was positively furious. Knuckles white and mouth twisted in a grimace, he bellowed:

"This is no punishment! You scold him as if he was a child, not a dangerous madman." His dark eyes were glowing with madness. He was advancing dangerously toward King Charles when his son, Uriel, tried to contain him, probably aware of all the court's eyes on them. Raphael only broke free impatiently and gave him a venomous look, whispering a heated _"stay out of it, boy"_. Uriel, embarrassed, returned to his previous position, his younger brother, Virgil, by his side. Returning his attention to the King, Raphael said ominously, pointing a finger to the King's heart: "You will see, brother. One day, you will regret this sympathetic judgement...when that barbarian will cut down your throat!"

The King rarely looked annoyed or irritated. He was usually the image of serenity and composure. But right now, he was the perfect incarnation of _don't anger me any further if you value your life_. There was no trace of softness in the King, no trace of mercy. The crown jewels, all blue stones and white pearls set in gold, were gleaming in the dim light. The sapphire velvet drapery behind him only accentuated the blue of his eyes, lightening further their natural clear shade. They looked like ice.

"What I see here, brother, is you holding a grudge against the Captain of Eden's garrison, who saved countless lives on countless times in the past eleven years. A man who managed to end the war without further bloodshed and who has helped keeping the kingdom peaceful and prosper. What I see is your jealousy and resentment for a man who only ever did good for this city." The blue eyes were hard and the voice of the King even harder. Castiel had never seen his father act this antagonistically towards Raphael in public. His patience had reached its limit. "If anyone is at fault here, it is you, brother."

Livid, humiliated, Raphael clenched his jaw tight, glaring at the King, angry words on the tip of his tongue. But one last look at the King and he stormed out of the Great Hall, his beautiful purple silks billowing behind him with his rapid steps.

With a heavy sigh, his father sat back on the throne, almost sagging on it. After a few seconds of calm, the herald announced the arrival of a foreign ambassador. King Charles muttered under his breath and wearily straightened his back. Without looking at Castiel, he grumbled, disgruntled:

"You better learn quickly how to ride a dragon, son."

Castiel could only agree.

 

***

 

It was raining buckets outside and he could hear the thunder shaking the fragile glass windows regularly. Despite being daytime, there was no sun, no light, just flashes of lightening illuminating the corridors for barely one second at a time. Castiel might have believed it was the dark of night if he didn't know better. In the corridors, he saw some servants cower at every crack of thunder, at every time the dark grey skies were pierced by a strike of lightening. It was a strong and vicious storm. Whereas the one that had destroyed two of Eden's ships a few days ago was merely strong winds and rain, this was a thunderstorm. All inhabitants were told to stay in their houses and pray for God's mercy. No work could be done in that weather.

Good thing that Castiel did not have to leave the safe haven that was the castle to go to "work".

He was striding across the halls submerged in darkness, two guards at his sides. Their steps echoed dully against the cold stones, reverberating against the strong grey walls. Castiel was admittedly a little excited and nervous at the prospect of his first "dragon lesson" but did his best to not let it show on his face. He did not want any gossip and Dean's position was already fragile as it was. Adding Castiel's infatuation was a sure way to have him banished from Eden altogether.

As he went down and down and down the stairs and the poor light coming from the windows began to completely disappear, one of the guard went to find them a lit torch. With his return and the light of the fire, they could continue their route. The stairs were uneven here, slippery with humidity and the stones were rough and old. Some walls were almost crumbling on themselves but the castle still stood, venerable and proud.

Castiel had rarely ventured in this part of the castle. To be fair, it wasn't so much a part of the castle as it was the ruins of it. It had belonged to another family before Castiel's ancestors took it by force and established their rule on the land, uprooting the then-reigning family, centuries ago. The name of that ancient dynasty had since fallen into oblivion but Castiel remembered the old name of the city and the castle for all the times his father and tutors had whispered its name to him: Ascalon.

When he was a boy, he had tried to imagine what Eden had looked like before the Angeles came, if it was as colourful as it was now (all in blues, whites and golds, his family's colours) or if it was dull grey, like the castle they lived in. He wondered what languages they spoke, what gods they worshipped (the Edenish were pagans before their arrival, that much Castiel knows), how they lived. But growing up, those little daydreams were rapidly swallowed by lessons and training. First-born son and heir, it was his duty to know the land and people he would have to rule over and the enemies he would have to fight off or forge alliances with. Castiel had been a diligent student and he knew he wasn't half-bad at this but sometimes, the questions he asked himself when he was a kid resurfaced.

In the stories, his ancestors were always the good people, always the liberators but Castiel knew better than to believe blindly in their chronicles. A conqueror would always try to make it look like they were a better ruler, had the well-being of the people in mind. Castiel didn't know anything about the dynasty that preceded them but he knew the Angeles were not as clean and good they pretended to be in the beginning. They had been known for their military prowess, complex strategies and rapid conquests; not so much for their culture, poetry or music. They had been violent, cruel and ruthless in their expansion. They had been a great and feared empire, until the blood feud between Emperor Michael and Lucifer ruined it and split the empire in two. Castiel didn't know how life was in the Empire but he firmly believed a peaceful, if smaller, kingdom was better than an Empire held together by tyranny and dread. He did not like the idea of his people doing his bidding because they were forced to. He wanted his family and his father's reign to be remembered with fondness rather than bitterness.

Perhaps Raphael was right. He was too much of an idealist.

When he finally arrived in front of the cell where Dean Winchester was located, he saluted the gaoler on duty, knocked twice and announced himself before the man unlocked the door. The heavy padlock groaned loudly in the silence. Castiel winced.

When he entered the room, right after his guards, he was first surprised by how dark it was inside. There were no windows here and the Captain had not bothered to light candles – maybe he wasn't even given one. And it was cold in here too. There was no fireplace, no brazier. Castiel could already feel his teeth begin to chatter. He crossed his arms on his chest, trying to keep himself warm, to no avail.

"Captain?" he called, hesitant.

The guards at his sides moved closer to him, prepared to deflect any attack. Castiel contained his huff of annoyance. He doubted there would be an attempt on his life so soon. Dean had to be frozen to death by now if he had spent the night in such horrible conditions. And really, how cruelly ironic would that be? The King had spared this man's life only for him to die from the cold in a dark cell. Castiel pushed the thought far from his mind. Better think of something else.

He almost reiterated his call when he heard a loud creak – wood? –, the click of metal and the smooth rustle of clothes. He heard more than he saw light foot steps on the ground and then his guards lifting their spears. The steps stopped and a small sigh cut the silence.

"Your Royal Highness."

Castiel felt his throat tighten at the weariness of that usually so warm voice. It was rougher than he remembered, probably because of sleep, and it was less powerful, less intimidating than yesterday morning. The Prince felt like there were traces of Dean's accent too, in the slightly different way he pronounced the words, more stressed and rolled than clear. Still, it was Dean's voice and it meant Dean was fine and that was all that mattered to Castiel at that point.

Remembering himself and the position they were in, he ordered in a clipped voice one guard to bring the torch they had left in the corridor.

When light was shed on the room, Castiel wished he hadn't asked for fire.

Dean had been shackled.

Even if it should have been expected, the Prince still felt angry and indignant on Dean's behalf. Not only the man had been thrown into a cell but he was also _bound_. For committing no crime other than responding to his uncle's petty provocation. Castiel felt white hot rage against his uncle rise in his chest, choking his breath. Unconsciously, he clenched his hands into fists and let out a low growl. The Captain eyed him with slight curiosity before his expression reverted back to indifference. He was still dressed in the clothes he had worn yesterday, that black and red dragon surcoat that made him stand out among the nobles but he had been divested of his weapons. There were no signs of blood or bruises as far as Castiel could tell in the feeble light but he couldn't trust his own eyes in this case. Dean may have been roughened up on the way to his cell; maybe the blemishes were hidden under his garments.

The man did not look tired but his posture was not as straight as it had been the few times Castiel had seen him. He seemed sad, dejected. Castiel did not like that look on him. It only made him want to embrace the man in his arms and never let him go.

It was a dangerous desire.

Picking the first non-hug-related thought, Castiel said, in a slightly hurried tone:

"Aren't you cold?"

One dark blonde eyebrow lifted up and the Prince felt like some of that combativeness had crawled back into the summer leaf green but the illusion only lasted for a mere second. The Captain shrugged, making the shackles rattle lightly.

"I'm used to far worse, Your Royal Highness."

Castiel eyed him sceptically until he noticed: Dean was not even shivering. What he said was probably true – Castiel had no idea how much colder the North was comparing to Eden but he imagined the Edenish autumn climate must have appeared very mild in comparison to the Northern one.

"I..." he began, before remembering the guards. "Please, leave us. And bring a brazier."

When the guards did not budge one inch, he added, in a irritated tone: "Before we freeze to death, please!"

"We can't leave you alone with him, Your Royal Highness."

Castiel refrained very hard from throwing his arms in the air in irritation, exasperated at the sheer _idiocy_ of his guards.

"Oh for God's...this man is _bound_ and _weaponless_. What harm can he do?" He heard something that might have resembled a huff or a laugh behind his back. He paid it no mind. "This man saved me from Crowley only two days ago. He won't kill me, I'm far too valuable alive."

The men obviously hesitated. After a tense few seconds, they both bowed and exited the room, thankfully leaving the torch with them. Castiel hastily put it in an old appliance. They left the door ajar, however and the Prince could see one of them stay in front of it, probably watching for whatever threat Dean might pose. Castiel tried to not feel irked by it. So much for the privacy he had hoped for.

Dean, in the mean time, had sat back on what a very generous person might have called a bed. If some wood planks could be considered a bed. Despite his manacles – which appeared quite heavy, if the Captain resting his hands on his knees as soon as he was sat was any indication – Dean looked...almost smug now, more open. A teasing grin was set on his face and Castiel had missed this, this easy camaraderie. How effortless their interactions were. How natural Dean was. The Captain pressed half of his body against the wall, half-sitting, half-reclined. His head, neck and shoulders against the cold stones, he was smirking at Castiel.

"Too valuable, uh?" Dean drawled. "Not why I won't kill you but hey, whatever excuse you prefer."

Castiel let the light quip fly past him and came closer to the Captain, who lifted his head, a sudden guarded and slightly panicked look in his eyes. He looked close to apologising and Castiel was having none of it.

Without thinking, he trailed his fingers onto the shackles and the raw skin around them. It must hurt. If the cold and rusty metal was biting even to him, through his bandages, what must it be for Dean, who had been manacled for hours now? He heard Dean take a sharp intake of breath. Castiel hastily pulled out.

"I am sorry they bound you." he murmured, remorseful and feeling guilty, staring at the fetters. Logically, he knew it wasn't his fault. He knew he had nothing to do with Raphael's provocation or Dean's reaction or even his father's decision. Still, he couldn't help it; he felt like _he_ had been the one enclosing Dean's hands and feet with metal. His _family_ had done that; his stomach twisted uncomfortably.

A small and wavy smile appeared on Dean's lips. A brave face, no doubt.

"I'm not complaining. At least it's far nicer than having my head on a pike." The Captain answered, false cheer in his tone. At Castiel's surprised expression he replied, shrugging. "I heard people talk after what happened."

Castiel's shoulders slumped a little at the revelation. If his father had been a different man, Dean might have truly been dead now. Castiel was glad his father was such an unconventional king. He was glad he had been born first – if Raphael had been on the throne...

Ill-at-ease, he tried to search for something to sit on but found nothing but stones – the only sitting place available was Dean's bed and being so close to the Captain was both unwise and unseemly. And he didn't know the Captain very well, barely knew him at all in fact, such proximity would probably be unwelcome. He resigned himself to remain standing for the time being.

He should have asked for a chair too.

Not really knowing how to hold himself, he kept his arms hanging by his sides. His words were stiff and formal when he answered. He grimaced internally.

"I am sorry. My uncle is...he has always been against the dragons. He shouldn't have acted in that way, it was improper."

Dean shrugged again and turned his head, avoiding the Prince's gaze. He was hiding it but Castiel could see he was tense. Gearing up for a fight or just angry, the Prince didn't know. Dean's jaws were clenched tight when he answered levelly.

"It's not my place to judge a Duke. And I should not have let him get to me. It was my fault."

_It wasn't your fault_ , Castiel wanted to reply. _You had every right to be upset._ But Raphael was royalty, like it or not, and no one could threaten royalty and remain unpunished. Sometimes, it irked him. But then he remembered that _he_ was royalty too and that most often that not, it meant he was protected from most common menaces. Only those very sure of their strength tried to attack him. Unfortunately.

To distract himself from these thoughts, he asked the question that had been burning on his tongue since yesterday's misadventure.

"Why did you not flee? You could have gone away easily."

Dean snorted disdainfully. He tried to cross his arms against his chest but the bounds did not give him much liberty of movement. He huffed in irritation. His freckles became more pronounced in the fire, little red-brown dots on his skin. Strangely, it felt like they gave him a sweeter look, a more innocent expression as if to eclipse his broad and intimidating figure.

Maybe Castiel really was going insane.

"And have my family punished in my stead? Thanks but no." The Captain retorted in a gruff voice. "I may be a temperamental idiot but I am no coward. I was the one to blame and I was the one to be punished. I would rather face death than let the same fate happen to my family."

Before Castiel could answer, a sharp knock diverted his attention from Dean. The guard had returned with a heavy brazier that he dragged more than he carried. It was simple, cheap metal but it was already filled with coals and once it was in the middle of the little room, between the Prince and the Captain, the guard put the torch into it. The fire took easily and soon it was burning comfortably in the brazier. Castiel frowned at the rapidity of the fetching but could not bring himself to complain about it. Especially when the other guard brought a chair (or rather a stool) with him. The Prince whispered a thank you before the man bowed and walked out of the room. The sooner he was comfortable and warm again, the better. Taking his place in front of the brazier, he carefully held his cold hands above the flames – the warmth seeping in his fingers was exquisite.

Thanks to the brazier, he could see the room more clearly now – and he somehow wish he couldn't. It was rather small, tiny almost, probably a servant room when the castle was first built. The stones had rough and unequal edges. They were more black than grey, due to the passing of time. The ceiling was low; Dean's brother would probably bump his head against it. However, he was thankful for the warmth and the light. It was unnerving to see only portions of the man he was speaking to.

As if he was reminded of the presence of the guards at his door, Dean soon corrected his position, sitting straight and on alert. He made no move to get closer to the fire. When his eyes settled on Castiel once again, Dean had returned to his cold formality. There was no trace of teasing or humour in his tone anymore.

"You seem better, Your Royal Highness."

Frustration rolled through him. He wanted to yell at the guards to go the fuck away (he was vulgar when pressed, yes) so Dean could be himself again. Not...not this empty shell who only responded with politeness and indifference. Not like all the nobles and the prospective wives. Only talking when they were talked to. Never trying to strike up conversation. Never voicing an opinion that they thought might be contrary to his beliefs. The Prince had soon discovered he hated the idea of seeing the Captain act like that in his presence, act like he was the Crown Prince and nothing else. Dean didn't seem to care about protocol. He didn't seem to care if Castiel had theoretically the power of life and death over him. Castiel was only another human, nothing more. And, ridiculously, he liked that idea, liked being _equals_. But this was just a pipe dream, an illusion. He could not escape his position, could not forget he was a Prince. And Dean was currently perfectly reminding him of this fact, he thought bitterly. His only small consolation was that Dean didn't lower his eyes when they discussed. Didn't _submit_. Was it because he was a noble too, in his own way, in his culture? Was it because of that that he hadn't been executed? 

_"It's not like you had to respect a king where you came from, right? And to think that you could have been a **chief**..."_

Not for the first time, the Prince wondered what exactly his cousin had meant by that. What could have happened to Dean in his past, what he was before he arrived in Eden. He would have no choice but to ask the Captain if he wished for an answer. Later, he told himself. Later.

"I am, thanks to you." he said, grateful.

Dean hummed absent-mindedly. His eyes were focussed on him, evaluating him, scrutinising him, his face, his hands, his body, he could literally _feel_ where his gaze lingered and it was highly distracting. Despite himself, he felt his heart beat stronger and his skin grow hotter than before and it was not entirely due to the fire – he just hoped his blushing wasn't perceptible. Damn. He had barely spoken more than ten minutes in total with the man who he had known for just two days and he was already totally helpless. It was pathetic. 

After a few long awkward seconds, Dean finally opened his mouth again.

"So...you want to become a dragonrider." The Captain said in a slow, deliberate rhythm.

It wasn't phrased as a question but Castiel could hear the inquiring, curious note in his tone. The green gaze wasn't wavering at all, kept on analysing him, studying him. It was unnerving. Castiel nearly snapped at Dean to stop it. He refrained, though. In some way, he liked the attention too. It was different from the court or even the commoners he had met in his trip. It felt...simpler. Purer.

"Yes."

"Why?"

Such a simple, innocent question. And such a dangerous answer, if it were to to fall in the wrong hands. Castiel knew better than to to think the guards loyal to him – they could go running to Raphael with information as soon as they got it for all he knew. So he shook his head and pointed his chin in direction of the door. Dean looked confused for a moment but then seemed to understand his demand and nodded, though his lips formed the word "later". Castiel was grateful he did not push for information.

"How good are you at fighting?"

Castiel narrowed his eyes, suspicious at the sudden change of subject. What did his fighting skills have to do with anything? Why did Dean want to know? Was it a question to destabilise him? Did it have anything to do with dragonriding? He hope not. Riding a dragon seemed an already difficult task, he hoped Dean did not have in mind to have him _fighting_ on dragonback. He was already bad at it on a horse, he did not expect to be any better on a flying fire-breathing creature. The dragon was supposed to do the fighting for him, wasn't it?

"I was knighted when I was seventeen."

A small smirk appeared on Dean's face. He shook his head lightly, smiling. His tone was less cold when he spoke again.

"That doesn't answer my question."

Castiel bit his lips.

"I'm good at sword fighting and in mêlée. Not a good jouster, though. Why do you ask?"

Dean slowly inched closer to the fire, his chains clinking with his move. His eyes were almost glowing in the light of the flames, orange dancing in the green, accentuating the flecks of gold. His face was serious and determined.

"A dragon is far less easy to manoeuvre than a horse. With an aggressive dragon like the Monstrous Nightmare – the dragon you will ride – you will have to show it you're capable of measuring up to it. It doesn't like the weak, preys on them. It will only ever respond to someone it deems worthy of its respect. And you will have to respect it too, not treat it just like a _mount_." That last word was said with resentment; it was definitely a remark against Raphael. 

Dean then moved his hands closer to the fire until flames licked his fingers. Castiel cried out, reached out to prevent the Captain to burn his hands but Dean shook his head vigorously and evaded Castiel's grasp, pushing him off more roughly than the Prince was used to. He even stumbled a little. Dean did not apologise. His eyes were focussed on the flames and his fingers dancing through them like it was water. "No. I know what I'm doing. Fire doesn't hurt me, not a fire like that. You have to see, you have to _understand_. You have to remember that a dragon is fire made flesh. If you fear the fire, you will never master a dragon."

When Dean finally pulled his hands out the flames, the Prince rushed to his side, carefully grabbed the Captain's hands and turned delicately the palms towards him. There was no red flesh, no blister, no burn, just fair skin with a few scars, numerous callouses – unhurt. Castiel manipulated the hands, traced the veins to see if any damage would appear. When it became clear that the fire had done no harm to the skin, he lifted up his head to the Captain – who was far closer than he had expected to. Something seemed to crackle in the air, like the storm had been transferred here, in this small room, instead of raging outside. There was tension...like just before the lightening stroke. Dean's gaze was calm when their eyes met. Neither of them moved. The silence was only perturbed by the crack of the fire. Finally, after a few seconds that could have passed for hours, Dean pulled back a little and with him, the strange charm that had Castiel almost in a trance broke. The Prince shook his head slightly before returning his gaze to the Captain's palms. He whispered, awed.

"Magic."

"It's not magic. I'm not a witch." Dean withdrew his hands from Castiel grasp, skin sliding against skin. The Prince let him. The Captain's hands stayed close, fingers flexing against the fire. Like claws. "It's training. You will get used to it."

Castiel swallowed down heavily. A drop of sweat rolled down from his temple to die at his throat. Suddenly, the room wasn't so warm anymore as it was scalding, scorching hot. He felt almost suffocated.

"And if I don't?"

With surprising speed and strength, Dean's hands suddenly grabbed his wrists, flesh hot on his skin. The kind of hot he didn't know if it was pleasant or harmful. His expression was hard, resolute. The set of his jaw, determined.

"You _will_ get used to it. Or you will burn trying." Gently, he released the Prince's wrists. He held Castiel's frightened gaze for a moment before the shadow of a smile grazed Dean's lips. The Captain gave him a light tap on the shoulder, a gesture so unexpected that Castiel jumped in surprise. _No one_ dared touch the Crown Prince like that. "But first, you have to learn about dragons."

And so began Castiel's first lesson.

When Dean had said he had to learn theory first before riding a dragon, Castiel had thought he would study the dragon's strategic strengths and weaknesses, the methods to gain the respect and trust of one, the way to make it listen to his orders.

It was nothing like that, though.

Dean told him legends about dragons. Not the Christian ones, where there was always a knight to slay a dragon which hoarded treasure or stole a princess. No, they were legends of his country, of his culture and it was as violent and cruel and magical as he had thought it would be. Monsters and gods, curses and revenge, magic and blood. But he listened, carefully, interested by those strange tales. He did not show disdain for Dean's old pagan gods (he did not believe the man had honestly converted himself to Christianity but it was strangely okay and it made sense with what he knew of the man) and the Captain seemed to appreciate it. The more Castiel seemed engrossed in the stories, the more he asked questions, the more Dean was open, smiling, laughing even. Castiel knew almost nothing about the Northern culture and gods and Dean was happy to fill in with the details, tell him more stories about the gods and not about dragons. Every time Castiel was lost in the sea of foreign names, Dean patiently began to explain who was who and who was related to who. The Prince knew most Edenish nobles would have simply refused to hear about pagan stories, called them blasphemous, but to Castiel it was just another tale. The Vikings' (Dean had rolled his eyes at his mistake: "We're not Vikings, Your Royal Highness, if anything, we're Norsemen. The Vikingar were just part of our society, the men who went out at sea to explore, trade and raid.") myth of creation was...arguably a little laughable. A primordial cow? A killed giant whose body parts made the world? Nine worlds connected by a tree and a rainbow bridge ("not the _nine_ worlds, Bifrost only connects Midgard and Asgard")? When Castiel finally laughed at the creation of mankind, two tree logs given life by the gods, Dean glared at him.

"Obviously, you don't care much about our myths." Dean grunted. He had lifted his legs and feet to the bed. His arms were not quite circling his knees but resting on them. He looked so much like a disgruntled child Castiel had to smile. "So tell me what you remember about dragons."

He accepted the challenge with a smirk. Confident in his good memory and wanting to impress Dean, he cleared his throat and began to recite almost word for word the legend of the three dragons the Norseman had told him about.

He talked about Níðhöggr, the Malice Striker. The dragon who fed off the corpses of those guilty of murder, adultery and oath-breaking and gnawed the roots of Yggdrasil, the three of life, under which he lived. A creature which was an abomination because it destroyed life itself.

He spoke of Jörmungandr, the Midgard serpent, son of Loki, the god of mischief, and Angrboða, a giantess. (Castiel secretly thought to himself that a god who is the father of a wolf, a giant serpent and a eight-legged horse was indeed a very bizarre god). He explained how Odin, the All Father, had taken Loki's children and tossed Jörmungandr into the great ocean that encircles Midgard. How the serpent had grown so big that he could encircle the earth and bite his own tail. At Dean's insistence, he related how at Ragnarök, the serpent would meet and be slain by Thor but not before Jörmungandr would come out of the ocean and poison the sky. Thor, the god of thunder and archenemy of Jörmungandr, would meet his demise too, poisoned by the serpent and fall dead.

And finally he recounted the fate of Fáfnir. That particular story was closer to the Edenish tales and easier for the Prince to remember. Fáfnir was the son of the dwarf king Hreidmar who had been corrupted by the cursed ring Andvaranaut, said to bring about wealth and death to whoever possessed it. Lusting after his father's gold, Fáfnir killed his king and father to get all the gold for himself. He became so greedy that it not only made him monstrous in nature, but also monstrous in form and he turned into a dragon to guard his treasure. To prevent anyone to go near his treasure, he breathed poison into the land so everyone would be too terrified to come near him. However, valiant heroes tried to get to him, in search of wealth and fame, and many died by the dragon's fiery breath. Only one man managed to beat the dragon,Sigurðr, who was sent by Regin, Fáfnir's own brother. Killing the dragon with his sword and taking his heart, Sigurðr unfortunately also took the gold and became, in turn, cursed and died shortly after.

Dean smiled, satisfied and a little bit surprised that Castiel remembered it all. He even clapped his hands – the rattle of the chains alarming the guards for a second before they could make sure that their Prince was fine and not harmed in any way.

Once they were relatively alone again, Dean rolled his eyes, annoyed by the display of mistrust. But he smiled good-naturedly when he praised Castiel.

"Congratulations. You now know the major dragons in our legends."

Castiel tilted his head. There had only been three. Wasn't Dean's country full of those beasts? Eden had more stories about knights killing dragons that what the Captain had told him. Where were all the dragons now? How did those creatures come to life? Why were they so numerous in the North and so few here? Why were they almost legends here, almost forgotten and not alive like the creatures the Garrison rode? He had so many questions but one in particular stuck with him. It was, after all, the very beginning of the story.

"But I don't understand...You told me how giants, gods, dwarves and humans were born...but you never told me where the dragons come from."

A smile grazed Dean's lips. The Prince noticed that his eyes crinkled when he smiled too big.

Castiel would be damned before he admitted aloud that he found it particularly endearing.

Leaning back against the stone wall, his legs and arms stretched in front of him, the Captain began, in a slightly breathy voice.

"Some say dragons are evil men condemned to serpentine form by the gods or a curse, like Fáfnir. Some say they are the sons of Jörmungandr."

When the green eyes met him again, Castiel shivered.

"From where I come from, we tell a different tale."

 

***

 

Long ago, in the ocean, before there were dragons, there were sea snakes. Not big, but venomous and dangerous, quick and deadly. But despite their dangerousness, they were never considered famous predators. Their preys were small, uninteresting. They couldn't stay in the sea for long because they needed to go to the surface to breath. In the sea, they were jealous of the whales and the sharks. On land, they were jealous of the wolves and the bears. They were tired of being at the bottom of the food chain. They were tired to be able to live and land and sea but unable to be masters in any domain. They wanted to be strong and feared, not eaten or trampled on by bigger animals.

So the sea snakes asked the masters of the oceans, Rán and Ægir, to be greater creatures. The giant Ægir mocked them and his nine daughters laughed with him and the waves crashed and roared as an echo to their laughter. But Rán, who had remained silent while her husband ridiculed the creatures, agreed on the condition that the snakes drowned sailors for her and bring her gold. Thinking the conditions fair, the snakes readily accepted. And so the snakes grew bigger and happy, they attacked ships with their long bodies and sharp jaws, crushing them, sinking them, and sent many sailors to Rán's halls. They became the terrors of the seas and many an animal wouldn't dare to go the ocean for fear to be devoured by them. The goddess was satisfied and all was well for a time. But the snakes still needed to go to the surface to breath and still craved the sun's warm touch, which was rendered more difficult now that they were too big to lounge on warm rocks. So they asked Odin, the All Father, to grant them the power to become as graceful on earth as they were in the sea. The All Father refused, saying that he did not grant such wishes for nothing. And so the snakes went to Frigg, Thor, Freyr, Baldr, who all refused too.

They tried and asked and pleaded, god after god, but never received a positive answer. Their hope lost, they returned to the sea to live with what they had. But a dozen of them, unsatisfied, reached to the only god left, Loki. The trickster told them that he would help them only if they would go to Muspelheim to take Surtr's sword and give it to him. Then and only then would Loki grant them the graceful form they so desired. The snakes accepted without questioning the mission. As no one else but Loki had ever entered Muspelheim, the god accompanied them to the border of the realm of fire and let the sea snakes venture into it.

Their entrance didn't go unnoticed and soon, the fire giants came after them with their spears and their swords. But the snakes were tenacious and instead of crawling and hurting themselves on sharp rocks, they grew legs and quick feet to escape the giants. To protect themselves from the fire and heat that were omnipresent in this world, they grew thicker scales impervious to the flames. Growing hungry and with no fish to catch, they went into Muspelheim's rivers of fire and drank the lava and ate the rocks at the roots of the volcanoes. But the fire giants were numerous and they wouldn't let intruders in their lands, they wouldn't leave the snakes in peace. Soon, the creatures grew desperate, they had almost no place to hide, when the land didn't try to kill them, it was the inhabitants and they had nothing to eat here except rocks and lava. The snakes wanted to go back to the safety of the sea, where they were feared and revered, where the food was plenty, where the water was cool on their skin. But the one that had become their leader wouldn't hear of it. They had come to Muspelheim to gain a more graceful form, they had come to accomplish the mission given to them by Loki. They would prove they could be trusted, proved they were worthy of the attention of the gods. And so their leader devised a plan.

They would all enter Surtr's hall when he was asleep but while his brothers and sisters would distract the eldjötunn, this snake, the sleekest and sneakiest of them all, would steal the sword. They carried out their plan that same night, using treachery and poison, and managed to steal the bright sword. When the giants discovered this, a mighty roar shook the whole realm. Running back to the border of Muspelheim, the snakes desperately called for Loki, begging and pleading until finally the god came. But the god was so surprised by the snakes' new appearance he almost didn't recognise them. Their skin had grown tougher to counter the flames. They had developed bigger mouths and shaper teeth to eat the rocks. Their blood was warm and their breath too. Their senses were keener and they were faster with their legs and feet. They had sprouted claws and horns and spikes to defend themselves against the giants. They didn't look like they were snakes anymore. Refusing to acknowledge that they were who they said they were, Loki left the snakes to their fate but not before he tried to take the sword.

Angry, their leader spit angrily at the god for his treason and his words became fire. Afraid, Loki fled. The snakes, alone but with the prized weapon in their possession prayed to Odin, knowing the All Father could not possibly refuse the sword of his enemy.

When the one-eyed god came to them, he was as astonished as Loki as he had not seen such a thing in his visions of the future. When the snakes told him about Loki's treason and broken promise, Odin asked for the sword. The leader, distrustful, said the god could only have the sword if he proved his good faith. The All Father then lifted his hand and lightly touched the snake muzzle. A bright blinding light enveloped the snake and soon, two new appendages slowly grew from its back. Like the rest of its body, it was leathery and scaly, but thinner and stronger at the same time. The rest of the snakes watched the wings of their brother in awe.

"Is this form pleasing you?" Odin asked.

The leader then asked why the All Father would give them wings.

"Because you come from the sea," he gestured to their serpentine body, "you can walk on earth," he pointed his staff to their legs, "and you breathe fire." He touched the burnt soil where the leader's fire had landed. "With your wings, you will be the master of the air too. You will be the most powerful creatures in the universe. Is this not what you wanted?"

Humbled, the snake accepted the god's gift and gave Odin Surtr's flaming sword. As a thank you for preventing the death of the Æsir – because it had been prophesied that at Ragnarök, Surtr would battle the Æsir with this very sword –, Odin gave them all wings and a new name. _Dragon_ , the one who sees. Blessed by the gods, as ruthless as Rán, sly as Loki and wise as Odin. Masters of the world.

 

***

 

When Dean's gruff voice finally came to a halt, Castiel, a little wide-eyed, breathed:

"It's a beautiful tale."

The Captain dipped his head down a little. A faint smile stretched his lips.

"Thanks. Not mine but...that's what we hear back home."

Still moved by the tale, the Prince took a few seconds to realise what the Captain had said. _Home. This is what we hear back home._ This was the perfect opportunity to learn more about Dean's past. Too animated and passionate, perhaps, Castiel did not think about the Captain's previous bad reaction. He only saw an opportunity to learn more about a man he had come to admire, in some way. The question had stayed in the back of his mind for two days now and seeing Dean so relaxed, so open...he thought he might try his chance.

"So..." Dean began at the same time Castiel said "I wanted to...". They both stopped at the same instant. Dean frowned but with a slight move of his head, he gave permission to the Prince to go first.

A sliver of nervousness crept back in Castiel but he ignored it. He wanted to know too much. Licking his lips in slight anxiety, he asked:

"I wanted to ask about what Gabriel said..."

Dean's face closed off so suddenly Castiel immediately stopped speaking, his mouth still forming his next words in silence. The Captain's hands were closed in tight trembling fists, ready to beat anyone to death. His jaw was clenched hard and a vein throbbed visibly in his neck. His expression cold as stone but his eyes were swirling with murderous anger.

"Don't listen to everything Gabriel says. He's a trickster." Dean replied coolly, muscles tense.

From the easy atmosphere that had been there only seconds ago, there was no trace. The temperature in the room seemed to have suddenly dropped ten degrees. Stubborn, the Prince ignored it all. He wanted his answer, he was tired of Dean closing off at anything that reminded him of who he was. He was going to put his _life_ in this man's hands. How could he trust Dean if Dean did not trust him?

"But, what he said about how you could have been..."

Dean's voice cut his question, sharp and harsh.

"It's of no importance, Your Royal Highness. I am here to give you your first lesson in dragons, not lose time in idle talk."

Feeling petty, Castiel replied, chin up: "I am the Prince. If I want to partake in idle talk, then partake we should."

Dean swung his legs over the bed and his boots hit the stones loudly. The rattle of metal was monstrous. The Captain replied, through gritted teeth: "Indeed, Your Royal Highness. Would you like to partake in idle talk?"

His eyes were defiant and deep pools of green swirls of fury. His lips were an angry red from biting them. His muscles were tight, strained, visible underneath his tunic. Even chained, he looked formidable, terrible. He looked like a wild animal in a cage unable to contain him.

He was beautiful.

Instantly, Castiel regretted his course of action. _Stupid, stupid, stupid._ Why had he let his tongue slip? Why couldn't he act responsibly with that man? He never meant to anger him, never meant to...He just wanted to know the _truth_.

"I...I would like to know what my cousin meant by that, Ca...Dean. If it's okay with you."

Dean's shoulders relaxed minutely. He was still glaring at him but he looked a little less angry, now, more...controlled. He was slowly retreating into himself, trying to keep a calm demeanour while boiling on the inside.

It was even worse than outright rage.

"It's in the past, Your Royal Highness. It has no meaning and no repercussion for the present, I assure you. I will remain loyal to the Kingdom of Eden, if this is what you are afraid of."

The formal tone again. The careful and cold voice. Castiel _loathed_ them. He tried to touch Dean, tried to make contact with him but the Captain flinched visibly, anger flashing in his eyes before disappearing again. Castiel swallowed before he said, a little shakily:

"No, I'm...I trust your loyalty, Dean. I just wish to know...more about you, I guess."

"I am here to teach you how to train a dragon, Your Royal Highness. I doubt barbarian stories will entertain you very much."

Castiel refrained from answering testily _"You have just spend two hours telling me barbarian stories"_. Somehow, he doubted Dean would appreciate the irony.

"Please, don't be like that." pleaded Castiel. He desperately wanted to touch the man, as if from just a contact, he could make this right again. If Dean understood Castiel did not wish to...to mock him or rub salt in old wounds, maybe it would be alright. Maybe they would be alright.

Dean's face was expressionless once more. The Prince could have been talking to a statue for all it was worth.

"Be like what, Your Royal Highness?"

"Stop...stop acting all formal and cold. Please, Dean, I..."

"You are forgetting, Your Royal Highness. I am the Captain of the garrison and your teacher for the day. This is all."

To have heard and seen and felt him so passionate just a few minutes before only to become so cold when faced with that question physically hurt Castiel. He knew he shouldn't care. For Christ's sake, if he was nursing a broken heart, there were tons of available woman (and men) who would gladly make the Prince's happiness and pleasure their priority. But, like always, his treacherous heart seemed to be fixated on the one person it couldn't have. The one person who currently seemed to hate him with all his heart.

Dean turned his head to the right, avoiding the Prince's gaze.

"This lesson is over. Your lesson tomorrow will be with Sam. He can teach you some runes, if you wish to. He can translate the Book of Dragons better than me."

"Dean..." he tried desperately.

The Captain's eyes stayed fixated on the wall.

"Good bye, Your Royal Highness."

With a sigh and a heavy heart, Castiel dragged his feet off the room. When he turned, Dean was still not looking at him. He shut the door more violently than he should have but he did not care.

He was tired of wanting, tired of wishing, tired of fantasies and unobtainable desires.

He needed to get out of the castle.

He needed to forget Dean Winchester.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sorry for the delay and for the lesser quality of this chapter. I've spent a month working on this chapter and I am still dissatisfied. But after so long, I don't know what I can do to improve it so I'm posting it as it is. The ending is rushed because I'm sick and right now, my brain is melting in my skull. I'm going back to college soon so don't hold too much hope for more frequent updates. I am a slow writer.
> 
> The story about the dragons' origins is totally invented since there aren't any tale of their origins in Scandinavian mythology to my knowledge. Since Loki is indeed the father of Jörmungandr, I thought only logical he would somewhat be (one of) the father of all dragons...albeit inadvertently.
> 
> As for the etymology of "dragon", well, I won't go into details about Proto-Germanic, Ancient Greek and Sanskrit and everything but apparently the very first meaning of the word from which dragon comes meant "to see". It's wiktionnary so if I made a mistake, blame them.


	5. How to Forget Dean Winchester

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Startled and slightly under the influence of the alcohol, he sways a little on his feet before he turns, a little bewildered, to stare at a young smiling woman. Thankfully, she does not look like she could be Anna's age although she is certainly younger than Castiel. She has golden skin, blonde hair and hazel eyes which seems almost green when the light hits them right. Her smile is sweet and oddly innocent. Something in her features draws him to her though he can't pinpoint exactly what.  
> "Hi! What's your name?"

Even though he has never been there himself, Castiel knows exactly the way to the House.

Nobody calls it by another name. When a man goes to the House, people know he isn't going to his wife and kids. The establishment is well known in the capital. It is loathed by the poor commoners and assiduously frequented by the rich aristocrats. Whereas the majority of the population sees the House as a den of iniquity, a place of depravity, nobles and wealthy merchants consider it merely as a place where they can fulfil their desires.

Oh, it's not that commoners are any less lustful than the wealthiest part of the population but the House's services are, we might say, less affordable for them. It never fails to stir much jealousy in the hearts of men of the lower city.

At first glance, the House is an inconspicuous building: it's a two-storey half-timbered building with whitewashed walls, stuck between two other rather plain houses as it is. You wouldn't be able to differentiate it from another merchant's house, except for the small red lantern that hangs off its wall. There is no sign, no advertisement, no name. The customers don't need a name to find the brothel, the knowledge comes from word of mouth. The clientèle itself is an elite, after all.

Castiel knows his father is one of the loyal customers of the House. Oh, of course, he doesn't come _here_ himself but now and then he would hire (via an envoy of course) a meretrix for the night. Servants are easily available, sure, but they always raise problems. A royal bastard is certainly not something the Edenish court needs right now. It would either end messily (Castiel has heard dark rumours about his uncle having babe's blood on his name) or ruin his family name. In the past, there have been several ambitious bastards in the Angeles bloodline and Castiel would rather that history did not repeat itself. Crowley was already a very sore point in their family tree – if he was indeed Lucifer's bastard as he claimed to be.

When he opens the door of the House (or rather, when a man observes him through a little opening in the wood panel, recognises him and opens the door for him), Castiel is hit by a wave of humid heat. It's not especially cold outside (it's autumn still) but the temperature inside the House is definitely much higher than it is in the streets. He is stunned for a moment, stays a second too long staring at the man (guard? protector? peacekeeper?), who sidesteps respectfully. The man is tall, well-built and is dressed in brown, the only touch of colour being a faded yellow belt encircling his waist; his head is slightly bowed so that he won't meet his eyes. He will never order Castiel to hurry up because he's the Prince but he can feel his impatience and uneasiness all the same. Castiel takes the first step forward carefully if a bit unsteadily – _maybe_ he has had too much wine before coming here – and immediately becomes engulfed in the overwhelming odours of sweat, sex and perfume. Some sort of incense drowns most of the bad scents, the smell a little bit cloying to his nose. He shakes his head and goes inside, the door clicking softly behind him and he's surrounded.

The place is not as dark as he would have thought, but with the walls painted red, even the light coming from the candles and torches seems insufficient. He blinks. Maybe it's because of the wine, maybe it's because of his residual anger against Dean but he can't help thinking it looks so much like blood. There are murals and mosaics on the walls, paler and softer than the deep reds and a bit smudgy, blurry, like they were never given enough time to dry before someone touched them or like the little tiles fell off the wall with time. The scenes represented are what one would expect from a brothel, couples entwined in intimate embraces or shocking positions, even though it is quite tame in comparison to what Castiel had feared. He doesn't let his eyes linger too much on them however as he already can feel his face flush, stupidly embarrassed by simple paintings. For lack of a better thing to do, he lets his gaze wander on the rest of the room.

The House is bustling with activity, women in thin clothes strolling in the room, trying to entice this man or that man, customers and girls singing, laughing and whispering to each other, kids with trays full of food and wine, a few musicians playing a romantic ballad. Some couples are in advanced states of undress, already lost in the throes of passion, unashamedly loud and obnoxious while others are still fully clothed and calmly discussing whatever subject they can find in here. The women are of all age, young and mature, blonde and brown haired, fair and dark skinned. Some wear long dresses, other prefer shorter ones but all reveal more skin than they hide, drawing one's eyes inevitably to their soft curves and unblemished flesh. He turns his gaze away when he notices there are even a few scantily clothed boys (boys, not men) walking between them, their eyes scouting the crowd, their bare chests gleaming in the faint light. Covered in oil, probably. One of them meets his gaze and smiles hesitantly at him but Castiel hurriedly goes to another side of the room before the boy comes his way. His heart is pounding too fast and his head begins to feel heavy but he can't mistake the tingle of want in his bones at the sight of that angular face and those sharp hipbones. It's wrong, so very wrong on so many levels.

For a few seconds, he feels disoriented, the wine taking its toll on him while he tries to calm himself. He looks around and feels relief when he sees none of the boys. Without meaning to, he stumbled in another room, furnished with pillows, stools and drapes, creating a semblance of more private spaces. The voices are softer here, the music less loud. It feels intimate and Castiel feels very out of place all of a sudden. He should leave. Yes, he definitely...

The Prince can't help but frown when he recognises some of the nobles who are part of the Edenish court against the plush cushions in one of the corners. He can identify without fail Lord Zachariah and young Sir Thaddeus, son of Lord Bartholomew. They are surrounded by no less than seven very young girls (is any of them even fifteen?), all in bright dresses that almost hide nothing from a man's view. Sir Thaddeus just seems torn between them all, incapable of choosing one of them for the night before he finally takes three in his arms and leads them to the stairs, girls giggling after him. When Lord Zachariah grabs the youngest one by her hips and all but flings her to his lap, undressing her without finesse and very obviously intending to have her in front of everyone, Castiel turns away, lips twisted in a grimace. He is disgusted by their attitude, their baseness, shamed that they are even considered _nobles_ before he remembers with a sickening clarity that he's here for the same purpose, that he's truly no better than them. Shame washes down over him and without thinking, he turns back the way he came from. He's ready to bolt, to leave this wretched place behind (this is a mistake, a horrible mistake) when a gentle hand lands on his shoulder. Startled and slightly under the influence of the alcohol, he sways a little on his feet before he turns, a little bewildered, to stare at a young smiling woman. Thankfully, she does not look like she could be Anna's age although she is certainly younger than Castiel. She has golden skin, blonde hair and hazel eyes which seems almost green when the light hits them right. Her smile is sweet and oddly innocent. Something in her features draws him to her though he can't pinpoint exactly what.

"Hi! What's your name?"

He stares unblinkingly at her for a few long seconds, unsure if she's joking or if she really doesn't recognise him at all. Sure, he's never been in here – in all, he has only ever been _once_ in a brothel, as a "birthday present" from his cousin Gabriel and it was a rather traumatic experience he did not wish, until now, to see repeated – but he's the _Crown Prince_. She should _at least_ vaguely know what he looks like – his father's head is adorning their coins, for God's sake and Castiel's face _screams_ Angeles genes. Plus, they aren't that many men dressed in royal colours, are they?

Deciding against revealing his true identity, he says the first name that comes to his mind: the one his mother often used when Castiel was just a little boy. When he used to climb into her lap and she would tell him stories in her soft voice while distractingly petting his unruly hair. His heart aches when he remembers it, the gentleness of her touch. His voice is a little hoarse when he speaks the name.

"Jimmy."

The woman smiles, all toothy grin and bright eyes. She tries his fake name on her tongue, her pink lips parting around the sounds. She nods, like she seems to like it and says her name is Chastity (and really, isn't that ironic?) with a bright smile. Seeing her like that, dressed in white – a short and very thin robe, yes, but far less outrageous than the others – and looking so happy and welcoming, it's hard to remember what she truly is. The thin veil with a yellow stripe across her shoulders reveals her real status, though. A prostitute.

Many men would probably never believe it if he told them but Castiel has never slept with a lady of the night. He has morals. If by morals you can accept views as askew as thinking it's better to bed your captor than a fallen woman. For the Prince, it's just _wrong_ to pay someone for having sex with you. Sex should be consensual and your partner, willing. Maybe it's one of the reasons why he seems to fall more easily into bed with his captors than his servants. He doesn't want to bed people who serve him, people he (or rather the kingdom) pays. As ridiculous as it sounds, sincerity and willingness are everything to him.

Maybe he's gotten too distracted. Maybe she's too fast. But soon, Castiel finds himself with a glass of wine on his lips and her warm hand on the small of his back. He shivers and drinks automatically, never thinking it could be poison. The wine is too sweet on his tongue but he swallows down anyway. She rewards him with a quick peck on the cheek and her warmth lingers on his skin. She has a beautiful smile and beautiful eyes, though not really the right shade, his imbibed brain tells him. He doesn't dwell on this.

"Come on, darling." she says gently, replacing the cup on a random tray, before taking his hand and guiding him slowly to her chambers. The movement of her hips is mesmerising. He scrambles to follow her, trips once or twice in the stairs (damned wine) but eventually, they reach their destination.

When the door is closed behind them, her arms come to encircle his neck and she kisses him softly. Her lips taste like sweet wine and her room smells like roses and jasmine flowers. He feels drowsy from the combined taste and smell and the stuffy heat in the room. Her skin is warm and soft under his hands, as is her bed when they land on it. Everything smells like flowers and wine. He stumbles. His head is spinning.

The last thing he remembers before he passes out is the warmth against his skin and the strange green glow of her eyes.

 

***

There is an insistent nudging sensation in his flank. Poking and jabbing mercilessly at his ribs. The fingers are terribly cold and hard on his tender skin. It doesn't tickle, it's almost painful. He groans. Maybe even mutters a threat. To no effect.

"Castiel."

More nudging. He pulls the covers over his head but it doesn't stop the unrelenting prodding. He tries to roll away from the fingers but is stopped by something else. Something...fleshy and hot and smooth and...oh.

He opens his eyes suddenly. And closes them just as quickly when he is confronted with a sheer wall of _pink_. Ugh. Why does it smell funny in here? Like...too much flowers? His mouth tastes bad. Really bad. Like something has crawled in there, made a nest, had babies, thrown a party and consequently died during the night.

He really hopes it's just his imagination.

When he tries to get up, the world is tipped dangerously sideways. He represses the need to puke. He feels like he's on that boat again. The fucking _Cupid_. Except the floor is not rolling under his feet with the gentle tide (though it very much feels like it) and there's no fresh marine wind to throw him overboard. Instead, two soft hands steady him gently and the nausea seems to abate somewhat. He mutters a thank you or what he hopes is a thank you. He doesn't think to look back at his aid. Now that's he's more or less sitting upright, he can look a bit more carefully at his surroundings. Pink walls. No windows. Faded paintings on the wall. The smell of roses and jasmines and underneath it, old sweat and...he frowns...sex? Ah yes, he remembers now. He's too tired and too hung over to be ashamed or to dwell too long on this. He has no doubt the knowledge will soon come back to him with a vengeance but not now. Remembering his very unpleasant awakening, he squints his eyes at the figure beside the bed (yep, definitely not his bed, his imbibed brain cues in unhelpfully) that keeps calling his name. He can't distinguish the features in that shoddy light provided by a few candles. The drums in his head certainly don't help him either.

He tries the first name that comes to his mind that isn't _Dean_ or _Father_. The first is in jail (and would have no reason to seek him out) and the second never goes into the House. Which leaves only...

"Gabriel?"

His voice is so gravelly it would be a miracle if anyone understood the name he has just said. His tongue is parched and there's a bad taste in his mouth. Water. Where can he get water? As if on cue, the body behind him moves – unsettling the bed by doing so and making him nauseous once again – and before Castiel can turn his head to see where the woman – he really hopes it's a woman – went, the door is already closed, leaving him only with the person that woke him.

A low chuckle answers him. That timbre is far too deep to belong to Gabriel. He squints harder, to no effect. His head only seems to pound louder in retaliation. Fuck you, brain.

"Try again, dear cousin." replies the rich voice, tinted with amusement.

Tired of trying to get a better look at a shadow, Castiel unsteadily tries to get up on his feet. He hisses when the cold air comes in contact with his sleep-warm skin. A quick look down tells him he's not completely naked. That's...good. Weird but good.

The closed-mouth smile directed at him is full of disdainful humour, as his cousin was watching an inferior form of life trying to claw its way up of a bottomless pit.

Castiel does not like thinking of himself as an insect.

With a sigh and trying to regain a semblance of dignity – which is pretty hard when you're almost naked, hung over and in bed with a prostitute in front of your cousin – the Prince greets wearily:

"Hello, Uriel."

The smile slowly morphs into a smirk that would have terrified Castiel had it not been his cousin's. Sometimes Castiel wonders if he and the King are an anomaly in the Angeles family. They're the only pacifists in the entire bloodline, it seems.

Like his father, Uriel stands proudly in rich clothes of silk and has no qualms about wearing purple, a colour that, only two decades ago, was strictly reserved for the King...or rather, the Emperor. Purple is the imperial colour, the mix of Eden's vibrant blue and Perdition's deep red and, in his grandfather's time, anyone bearing it beside himself would soon found himself without a head. Thankfully, King Charles is of a more forgiving nature. Nowadays, his father only wears blue, white and gold, Eden's colours, but Raphael still clings to the past, still clings to the symbols of the Empire, like the amaranth, the Cathedral Cross or the griffin – the eagle being Eden and the lion being Perdition, before they were replaced by Michael's angel and Lucifer's serpent. (Castiel can't help but think that his uncle would never combine the two new symbols, a winged serpent being too close to a dragon to Raphael's liking.) It is improper for the mere son of a Duke (since Uriel doesn't hold any land in his own name) to sport such colours but King Charles is far too lenient when family is concerned. Nobody has forgotten the importance of these symbols but his father never says anything about it. _He_ wears the crown, _he_ holds the sceptre. Therefore, he is King while Raphael only tries to play (and fails) Emperor. Castiel sometimes wonders if his father is really aware of how much Raphael wants his throne.

But Uriel, despite favouring the return to the Empire, is still less ambitious and belligerent than his father and he respects Castiel's claim to the throne. He probably expects being granted rich lands and high responsibilities as reward once Castiel takes the crown. Expects being the shadow behind the throne. He can almost already hear his cousin's voice, whispering to his ear: _"Have I not always been one of your most loyal supporters, even against my own father, dear cousin?"_

Uriel is nothing but a pragmatic man.

"Congratulations. You managed on the second try." comes the reply, voice rich and smooth like velvet. Uriel's eyes shines with humour in the dim light.

Feeling tired and tetchy, Castiel doesn't spend much time pondering about the merit of returning his ass to the bed. Once seated once again, he rubs a hand on his forehead and mumbles:

"Why are you here?" And then, remembering suddenly where they are, he adds, suspicious: "No, wait, how do you know I'm here?"

It's not like this particular place is familiar to Castiel. He spends more time in the library and on the councils than in brothels. If Uriel had to try and find him, he would have more luck trying the woods surrounding the castle than the pleasure houses. Ordinarily.

Uriel chuckles, as if the question was ridiculous. Maybe it is. His brain is still not functioning properly to notice it if it is the case.

"Your guards saw you storm out of the old castle after your little chat with Winchester. They followed you to the tavern and then here." There's barely concealed amusement in his cousin's eyes and Castiel feels his face grow hot from embarrassment. Castiel feels horrible. He doesn't remember having his guards with him...yesterday? Was it yesterday? How could he not even notice them? Was he really that drunk? Oh God, how did he act? What did he do? Did he shame the family name by acting improperly? Did he say anything out of line? Did he speak about Dean? About Raphael? About Crowley? Oh God, please help him.

He has no time to ask all the questions his frantic mind throws at him however. He hears the door open and close as gently as possible and suddenly, there is a cup of water pressed against his hands. His blush only worsens when his eyes travel down along the blonde curls, the almost shy smile and the hazel eyes. The not-totally-panicking part of his mind recognises her as the woman he spent the night with. (Charity? Clarity? Chastity? Something that ends with -ty.) He tries to speak, to at least whisper a thank you but his tongue doesn't seem to be working and the words stay stuck in his throat. He gives her an awkward smile and hopes she understand his meaning. God, he really screwed up. A brothel? Really? (The not-totally-panicking part of his mind chooses this moment to add that the girl was at least pretty and he could have done a lot worse. He mercilessly tells it to shut up.)

Uriel turns his head towards her before returning his attention on Castiel. The Prince swallows rapidly the water given to him and keeps his eyes down – he doesn't want any remark on last night's activities. At least, he feels marginally better now that he drank something that isn't wine. His head is still pulsing and his face still feels like it's ready to combust, however. And the loud grumbling of his stomach only adds to his discomfort. He hasn't eaten since...noon yesterday? What time is it now?

He keeps his head down when Uriel gives a small pouch to the woman and whispers something in her ear. Castiel is too mortified to try to listen to what he says. Probably something along _don't tell anyone what happened here_. Castiel is no monk, sure, and Gabriel spread enough ridiculous tales about Balthazar and Meg to make sure the Prince had a "good solid reputation with people" (whatever that could mean) so there is little doubt among the population that he is a secluded prince only living for religion (all the contrary, really, he's the Rebel Prince, according to Gabriel) but all the same...he feels _bad_ for visiting a brothel. Yes, he was angry and disappointed but that didn't mean he had an excuse for acting so rashly. He had let anger and a stupid infatuation cloud his judgement. He had always prided himself on being better than that, on always being in _control_. Well, so much for self-discipline.

"I assure you I would have left you to your...distraction if your father hadn't been asking for you since morning."

Castiel lifts his head quickly, suddenly panicking. What? Why? Why would his father want to see him so urgently? Did...did Dean say something? His guards? Or was he merely worried about his disappearance? What if it was Crowley? What if Perditionan ships were advancing towards the Edenish shores and with no captain to lead them the garrison was left adrift and the Capital, at the mercy of the Perditionan soldiers? No, he has to calm himself. Uriel would appear far more agitated if war was imminent. It was not a life or death situation. This was not a state concern, this was personnal.

"Why?" he asks, voice still rough but slightly better than before. At least, he doesn't sound like he's going to die, which is certainly an improvement.

"The Lady of Allen is here."

Castiel stares blankly at his cousin. The Lady of Allen was here. So? What did it have to do with him? Could his father not entertain his guests on his own, now?

Somewhere in his muddled and alcohol-imbibed brain a voice tries bravely to inform him about the Lady of Allen. However, it is soon lost in the labyrinth of dead braincells floating around his cranium. Should this name ring a bell?

"And?"

He's starting to grow impatient and nearly snaps at Uriel. Something he would like all too much, he thinks. The smirk forming on his cousin's lips doesn't sound promising at all. Somehow, Castiel thinks he's missing something vital, here.

" _And_ as her future husband, you probably should be there to discuss the terms of marriage, Castiel."

His mind blanks. His brain is fried. There's nothing inside his head right now. Niet. Nada.

And then, all of a sudden, the little voice who was drowning only seconds ago manages to come to the surface and shout its opinion. Very loudly.

Really, no one could blame Castiel for the loud "WHAT?" that spurted out of his mouth and had probably been heard all the way back to the castle. No one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am truly sorry for the delay, the shitty quality and shortness of this chapter. Or well, half-chapter, to be honest. Originally, this chapter is supposed to be quite a turning point in the story and quite political but I can't seem to find the inspiration to finish it. I cut the chapter in half because I felt it would be better to give you at least a little something now instead of having you wait for months for a full chapter.
> 
> Trivia: even though I draw inspiration from the Angevin Empire (Eden = England, Perdition = France), I chose to swap the symbols of the two countries for this universe. The colour red and the lion are typically associated with England while the colour blue and the eagle are associated with France (although the eagle is more linked with the First French Empire than the country itself). I chose the amaranth for its colour, its symbolism (immortality) and its link to Heaven in _Paradise Lost_.


	6. How to Forge an Alliance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Lord William, may I present you my son and heir, Prince Castiel. Castiel, this is Lord William of Allen and his daughter, Lady Daphne.”

He reaches the castle in record time, thanks to Uriel preparing a horse for the admittedly normally short travel. The rocking of the unfamiliar horse is making him sick and reminds him that it's been quite a long time since he swallowed anything more consistent than wine. His stomach is definitely not appreciative of the fact but he must carry on. The sun is high up in the air, telling Castiel the time is probably closer to afternoon than morning. The storm that was still rattling windows yesterday evening has passed and seems all but forgotten. The air is a bit chilly, though, and the road to the castle is muddy, the earth soggy and wet. He can feel the cold, damp touch of it through his clothes. He ignores it for the moment.

His heart beats stronger in his chest, in fear and worry; his father is going to be displeased. He sweats under his clothes, feeling hot despite the cool wind, and he mutters under his breath while encouraging the horse to go faster, _damn it_. Drums are still pounding in his head and he doesn't know how he will be able to face the King like this, sick and tired and suffering from the excesses of his night out. His father would never have sent for him expressly if it hadn't been important. Uriel's last words still ring in his ears but he tries very hard to not dwell on them. A wife. Oh dear Lord, he's in no condition to meet a prospective wife.

When he arrives in the first courtyard, he quickly dismounts (again, his stomach protests), not caring that his boots (not even riding boots) are covered in mud. He has no time to clean himself up or to reach his chambers to change clothes. If his father has been asking for him since morning, the sooner he gets to him, the better. The guards in front of the gates hurriedly salute him (“ _Your Royal Highness”_ and he hears Uriel follow closely behind him (“ _My Lord”_. His cousin, with his long legs and unquestionably clearer mind, quickly catches up with him.

“The King waits for you in the council chambers.”

Castiel nods, going for the direction of the council chambers, on thankfully steady feet. His father's choice is telling. No Great Hall means no official ceremony and no major protection, so his father must not treat this noble like an equal. Not a king or a very important lord, then. But then, Castiel could have surmised as much, unless a new monarch with a suitable daughter had risen in foreign lands in the last two weeks. No solar, so it's not an arrangement with a friend or someone close to the Edenish court whom his father trusts. The council chambers are a neutral ground, with minimum guards, no lavish decorations but just large and comfortable enough as to not appear impolite with receiving guests here. And it also means strictly political business – no fancy banquet or ride around the woods. Their guest's arrival was discreet and his father sent Uriel, a family member, to fetch him instead of a servant who could gossip and ruin the negotiations. It must be delicate matter.

So far, it doesn't bode very well for the Prince. He feels like a pawn in a giant game which rules and players he doesn't know and he doesn't like it one bit.

He isn't surprised when Uriel follows him into the council chambers, once the heavy old oakwood door opens in front of him with a loud creaking noise. He winces internally. So much for discretion.

Five sets of heads rise up to meet their arrival, discounting the guards that stand around them. His entrance into the council chamber is far less graceful than what he had hoped for, if the expressions that greet him are anything to go by. Castiel annoyingly notes that his uncle Raphael is here, with his perpetual scowl on his face, but no longer wearing the rich clothes he had favoured yesterday, instead now clad in neutral black. But, cheerful as always, Gabriel brightens the atmosphere in the room with his charming smile and dazzling nature, his amber eyes and green-gold mantle shining in the candlelight. He is no doubt leading the negotiations here, sitting close and pouring wine to a man Castiel assumes is their infamous guest. The Prince is ridiculously thankful for his cousin's presence. Gabriel may be a troublemaker and a jester, but he has always had Eden's good and his family's well-being at heart. He wouldn't put Castiel in a position he knew his cousin wouldn't like. But suddenly, he remembers. Didn't his father say yesterday that Gabriel would be sent away to negotiate with a neighbouring kingdom? The Prince is confused, but lets none of that puzzlement show on his face. Or at least, he tries.

“My dear cousins, thank you for joining us! We were just talking about you, Castiel. Please, please, sit.”

Like always, Gabriel's wide grin has the simultaneous effect of having Castiel want to punch him and embrace him. It's embarrassing. He guesses Gabriel took the "annoying older sibling" thing a bit too seriously.

Castiel briefly nods in direction of his cousin, before turning his eyes on his father.

His father is frowning, his clear blue eyes roaming on his figure, his expression saying loud and clear that he's dissatisfied with his son's appearance. It's only then that Castiel realises how dishevelled he must look. Yes, he knew he was wearing yesterday's clothes and had no time to take a bath – that, he could not possibly remedy quickly. But his hair is a mess, his clothes were haphazardly put on just a few minutes ago and he's suspecting there is some wine spilled on his tunic or something. He could certainly have made a better impression on his...well, future wife if Uriel's word is anything to go by.

Only then does he turn his gaze on the two unknown figures in the room. The man, seated next to Gabriel, looks in his late forties, maybe even early fifties. His shoulders are wide and strong and his expression is stern and fierce. He has flowing dark auburn hair and a well-kept beard. He stands straight next to his cousin and, when he meets Castiel's gaze, his grey eyes are cold and unreadable. He looks like the kind of man who's been in battle, fighting in the fields and not just yelling at his captains to do something. His presence sets the atmosphere crackling, the air tense for a moment. He stiffly shakes his head a little to acknowledge the Prince. Ah. So, not really respectful of his rank either. It doesn't surprise Castiel much.

And finally, finally, his eyes almost reluctantly reach the last person, the woman. The first thing he notices is that, despite looking younger than him, she is still older than a proper bride should be. She must be twenty-three, twenty-five, at most – quite old for a noble lady to still be unwed. And it's not even that she's ugly or deformed or has an unlucky birthmark. It's not that she isn't pretty either, no, but well, truth be told she is rather...plain. She seems of average height, average build and she's got auburn hair; before she quickly ducked her head, Castiel thinks he noticed hazel eyes. Her midnight blue dress is nice, the cloth of good quality but the design is simple. It is clear that while she comes from a good family, she is not exceedingly rich, just well-off. For her to still be single at her age with her status, she must be an only child or, at least, the lord's only daughter. Castiel is no fool and he recognises her for what she is. A tool to serve her father's purposes, a bargaining chip, a pretty prize. He prays that Anna never ends up like her. Prays that she can marry the man of her choice, out of love and not with a political agenda behind. As Crown Prince, Castiel always knew he wouldn't have much of a choice when the time comes, but Anna can still have her own happiness, can still be free.

His father suddenly clears his throat and Castiel tears his gaze away from the lady. The lord has a slight smile on his lips now, probably mistaking the Prince's stare for interest rather than plain assessment. He's not going to discourage him.

“Lord William, may I present you my son and heir, Prince Castiel.”

Lord William visibly flinches at the title but doesn't contradict the king. Castiel files it in his mind for later. His father continues in his clear voice, turning his piercing gaze on him. The stones and pearls in his crown and necklace around his throat shine dully.

“Castiel, this is Lord William of Allen and his daughter, Lady Daphne.”

Castiel bows respectfully to their guests. Like in the...house of disputable reputation, he has a vague recognition of the name but can't remember where he heard it or where they could be coming from. He's certain they're not Edenish, though. Allen isn't in Eden and the particular make of their garments denotes a foreign origin, without being too exotic either. The man's thick furs make him think they might be coming from the North, but they could as well just be a bit too sensitive to the cold. The capital is known for its strong sea winds, after all.

“I'm honoured, Your Royal Highness.” says Lord William with a deep sonorous voice, slightly accented, before standing up to meet him. Castiel eyes warily the outstretched hand – distractedly noting that there are scars on them, confirming his earlier assumption that this man is a warrior. He's been victim of too many assassination or abduction attempts to not be suspicious of such a gesture. It is easy to hide a small dagger in one's sleeve, after all.

He stares right back at this foreign noble and, without moving, calmly retorts:

“As I am, Lord William.” He turns his head towards the lady, gives her a small bow. "Lady Daphne.”

If the lord is offended by his refusal to shake his hand, he shows no sign of it. At a sign of his father, Castiel takes the seat on his right side, taking Raphael's place, to his uncle's obvious displeasure. He says nothing, though, knowing better than to challenge the King in front of a foreigner.

Once they are all seated once again, Lord William begins to speak, casting a glance all around the table, his gaze lingering a second longer on Castiel and the King. His hands are joined as if in prayer.

“King Charles, I come to you on behalf of my country.” His words are slow, careful, and his eyes are fixed on the King. His father's face betrays nothing of his emotions but remains open and polite. “As you know, the Provinces of Sidh have been...in conflict since the passing of our dear King Kenneth and young Queen Aileas, may God bless their souls.”

The man quickly makes the sign of the cross. A devout man. Good.

“Yes, I know of the war in the Provinces.” replies the King. “The passing of King Kenneth and his granddaughter was very unfortunate. A tragedy.”

Oh. So they're _Sidhans_ , then. Immediately, ingrained distrust settles in his bones. Similarly to many other Edenish children, Sidhans were one of the favourite monsters of the bedtime stories Castiel was told when he still had a nursemaid looking after him. They're not monsters per se as much as they are just another people, renowned for their barbarian ways. Even though that now as an adult, the Prince knows much of the stories was just myth and tales for frightening children, he is still wary of the Sidhans. The Provinces lie north of Eden, the two countries separated by a wall built by a dynasty preceding the arrival of the Angeles, a wall that is not at all beautiful like the one encircling the capital but is made of crude stones and peat. It's a mountainous country where the winters are harsh and unforgivable, where the sea rages against the coasts and where rain always falls from the sky. Castiel has never been to Sidh but he knows Gabriel has and his cousin holds not much love for the country, although he reluctantly admitted that there is a wild beauty to it and that the weather isn't really that bad. It's common knowledge that the Edenish don't like the Sidhans and vice versa. “Poor lands breed poor people” is a common saying in Eden and many believe the Sidhans to be dimwitted and barbaric. Castiel knows that some of the noble houses that were ruling the seigneuries of Eden before the Angeles came fled to the Provinces and that the first monarchs of his family tried to conquer those lands in the north. They never managed, though, and Emperor Camael the Just (his great-great-grandfather) finally tired of this failed conquest, disdainfully declaring that they had no need for ice and rocks. Since then, the relationship between two countries has been somewhat peaceful; mutual ignorance being preferable than outright war, after all.

Lord William's eyes narrow at the King, as if wondering if there is sarcasm or mockery behind his tone. There is none, Castiel knows, but someone who is not accustomed to his father's somewhat aloof demeanour might find his words derisive. After a few long seconds, Lord William nods, likely reaching a conclusion of his own, and resumes his explanation:

“Since our king died without an heir, the major houses of Sidh have been competing for the crown. The country has been bleeding for five years now.” His brows furrow and he seems exhausted, sad. His words are slow and his Enochian is heavily accented and might even be called rudimentary. But there is a strange cadence, a strange melody to the way his deep baritone voice shapes the foreign sounds. Enochian is not a beautiful tongue. It's hard, harsh, guttural, made for war and wrath rather than poetry and beauty but in his mouth, the words feel strangely light and elegant. “From the first fourteen candidates, we are now left to only two serious competitors, Lady Lilith of Loönois and myself. Lady Lilith is the daughter of Astaroth, daughter of Daeva, daughter of Richard, Earl of Rocabarraigh, son of Edgar, Earl of Rocabarraigh, son of King Duncan. As for I, my mother is Melanie of Auchenshoogle, daughter of Richard, Earl of Rocabarraigh, as I already mentioned son of Edgar, Earl of Rocabarraigh, son of King Duncan.”

Oh good Lord. Castiel seriously needs a copy of the Sidhan family tree. There is no way he can _know_ the birth order of the daughters of a distant Earl, descendant of foreign King who had reigned one hundred and fifty years before him in another country. Absolutely no way.

However, his father, assuredly more used to the nobles' genealogy in the Provinces than him, merely acquiesces.

“So you are...cousins?” he asks, slowly.

Lord William nods gravely. “First cousin once removed. Lady Lilith comes from the line of the eldest daughter, we come from the line of the second daughter.”

“And yet, you lay a claim on the throne of the Provinces.”

His father's tone is calm, but Castiel can hear the slight accusation underneath his words. No doubt Lord William can hear it too.

The Sidhan noble moves closer to his father and the furs around his shoulders move along with him, making him seem like a strange and wild beast. There is an odd intensity in his eyes, burning but cold.

“Yes, I do.” There is no uncertainty in his voice. He is sure of his own right. Castiel privately thinks he has some balls. “There is an old tradition, in our country, that allows for it. Maybe I could explain it to you, Your Majesty? And defend the rightness of my claim?”

To his right, Raphael gets agitated. Castiel can understand why. This sounds too much like the lord is demanding a private audience with the King. As respectfully the Crowned Prince, the commander of Eden's army and navy fleet and the government chief of diplomacy, Castiel, Raphael and Gabriel _should_ attend such a discussion between the King and another aspirant monarch. _Especially_ Castiel since he is supposedly marrying this would-be-king's daughter. But he can already see his father consider the discussion and can pinpoint exactly the moment he caves in.

“Castiel, if you please?”

It is surprise and hurt he feels first at the demand – no, command – but he brutally squashes the unwanted feelings. Castiel knows when he is dismissed and when it is time to shut his mouth. He knows better than to challenge his father's authority just because he is displeased by his father pushing him away and taking a decision without consulting him first. The King would probably say it's because he could not find Castiel to speak with him beforehand. Castiel obeys, because this is what he has been taught to do but he makes sure to stare directly in his father's eyes longer than would be normal. King Charles frowns a little. They will talk about this.

“Of course, father.”

He stands up, his chair dragging noisily against the floor and he walks stiffly towards the exit, irritated beyond measure that he's the only one his father asked to leave the chambers when he's the most entitled to stay. He prays that his annoyance doesn't show.

“Wait, Your Royal Highness.” comes a rich, sonorous and _pleased voice. “My sweet daughter wishes to accompany you. Perhaps you can show her around the castle?”_

The Prince turns towards the table and, indeed, Lady Daphne has risen from her chair and taken a step in his direction. He didn't even heard her move. He puts a smile on his face (or well, he tries at least) and bows a little before offering his arm to the lady.

“It would be my pleasure, Lady Daphne.”

A small twitch of her lips greets his gesture before she lowers her eyes, her cheeks noticeably more colourful than just a few seconds ago. Her shy smile doesn't make his heartbeat quicken or set his blood on fire but at least, she is pretty and close enough to his age. This is already far more than he could have hoped for, he guesses.

Uriel follows them readily out of the council chambers, accompanied by a lady-in-waiting of Lady Daphne. Castiel finds it unnerving that at almost twenty-seven, he still needs a chaperone but he grits his teeth and doesn't contradict the tradition. At his side, Lady Daphne matches his steps, though she always carefully stays just a bit behind. She is half a head smaller than him and if she would tilt up her head just so, it would be the perfect height to kiss her. But it is just an observation, not really a desire, and he lets it go.

Their steps echo dully against the cold grey stones of the castle. Castiel thinks for a moment to steer them to the ramparts, where they can see the horizon of Eden and the city wall. But quickly, his strategical mind intercedes, saying that he should not reveal the castle secrets to the enemy. Because, until they're officially engaged, no, _married_ , Castiel should still consider her an enemy. Sidh and Eden had been at war for decades. Even if the relations between the countries have been calmer under his grandfather and father's reign, there is no telling what Sidh would be capable of with such precious information.

Instead, he goes around the corridor and down the steps and tells Lady Daphne to be careful with the stairs. Her grip on his arm is not any firmer than before, but she manages, even with her long dress, and they arrive safely to the Garden.

The Garden is, with the wall and their military knowledge, probably the best thing the Angeles brought to Eden when they conquered the country in Castiel's opinion. Emperor Joshua was one of the calmest monarchs of the dynasty, more a learned man and a pacifist than a warrior. Under him, the empire was stable and at peace, if not grand. It was him who pushed for the preservation of the old woods around the castle (the same trees which his ancestors had begun to chop down to build more war machines) and the establishment of a garden at the centre of the castle, where formerly a courtyard for training soldiers stood. The luscious greens come from all around the world and Castiel loves coming here to take a rest from his duties or even simply watch bees go from one flower to the next. He has always felt more at peace and closer to God in the garden rather than in the great Cathedral. It is at the exact centre of the castle and while it certainly isn't the _only_ garden of Eden, Castiel can't help but think that there couldn't be a more appropriate name for it.

Unfortunately, they can only spend so much time walking around the garden without saying a word and the quiet between them soon begins to feel awkward. Castiel is still a bit nauseous from his night out but more than that, he's nervous. He is, after all, with the woman who could very well become his wife. What should he say? He isn't even sure that she would understand him and he doesn't speak Sidhan. The only languages he knows are Enochian and the Perditionan latin. Should he talk about Sidh? (And what could he say, then? _Oh yes, I hear it's the time to pick marrows and apples, how is the harvest in the Provinces? Probably bad because of the war, isn't it?_ How awful.) Should he comment about her appearance, pay her compliments? Maybe it would feel too forward, untoward. But if they are to be husband and wife surely they should be expected to be close to each other? To hope for a least minimal attraction, fondness?

Despite what his current uneasiness might suggest, it's not _at all_ the first time that he has had to meet prospective wives. But it's the first time that he's _unprepared_ for it and doesn't know anything about the woman (or women) he's meeting that day. His knowledge of Sidhan culture and language is very basic and he barely knows anything about her family: their roots, their history, their wealth, even how many members are in their household. Where does the Allen's loyalty lie? How much can he trust them? Worst, he doesn't know a thing about _her_ : nothing about her interests, her ideas about this union, not even her _age_. Castiel is in unknown territory and he doesn't like it. He's already not very talkative normally but when he's thrown off balance, his social skills are even worse.

Being still under the effect of a consumption of too much wine doesn't really help either.

Very surprisingly, Lady Daphne is the first to speak up. Her tone so quiet and low he doesn't distinguish it from a bird singing at first.

“I heard that you have a dragon, Your Royal Highness.”

Her voice is soft and pleasing, her accent melodious like her father. Her mouth is delicate, her face, pretty and, were he any other man, he would probably focus more on those things than the thought _how could news travel so fast?_ Maybe he is being paranoid but he can't help feeling a bit suspicious. The news had only been made official yesterday. When did she and her father arrive in Eden, exactly?

“You heard correctly, my Lady.” he replies carefully, slowly leading her towards a patch of flowers he particularly appreciated – and slightly further away from Uriel and her lady-in-waiting.

Distantly, a part of him remarks that though yesterday a vicious storm shook the entire castle and made the roads practically useless, the Garden seems almost untouched by it, all plants and flowers intact, barely covered in fresh rain. The sun is bright and clear and warms up the air nicely, the earthly perfume of the Garden surrounding them. He is thankful that the storm was as brief as it was violent.

“Could I see it? After we are wed?”

Some part of his brain notices her skin tone is pretty and that she blushes nicely. And that her eyelashes are very long. He tells it mercilessly to shut up.

The colder part of Castiel, the part that is the _Prince_ , does not like the _after we are wed_. As far as he is concerned, it is still an _If_. And really, what a strange first topic between two maybe-bethroted.

“It's kept away from the public for now.” he answers, trying for a diplomatic deflection. Lady Daphne simply nods her head, her eyes lowered again. He doesn't know her enough to judge her reactions but he would say she almost looks...disappointed.

However, it's not like he lied to her. The beast is kept into the bowels of the old castle, deep underground, away from all the scents, lights and noises of the boisterous capital where no one can see it without the express permission of the King. Castiel himself has absolutely no idea what his dragon looks like. He's only aware that it is at least ten years old (but how are human years translated into dragonic age, anyway?), powerful, aggressive, difficult and has a horrific name.

His dragon's species is called _Monstrous Nightmare_ , for God's sake. That doesn't sound ominous at all.

“Oh, alright. I understand.”

They resume their walking in silence. The quiet no longer grates on his nerves but he's afraid of what she will say when she will speak again. Behind them, he can hear Uriel's voice addressing to Lady Daphne's companion, but he can't distinguish words from the deep rumble at this distance. He wonders if Uriel would be more suave than him with his perhaps-fiancée.

“We have dragons in Sidh too, you know.” Castiel turns his head towards Lady Daphne, eyebrows raised, surprised. She gives him a soft smile in response and gets closer to him, as if sharing some kind of secret. She wears a very subtle perfume that is somehow familiar and totally unknown at once. Perhaps some variant of a flower or an oil from her home country? “Of course, they are not trained like yours. And they mostly live in the ocean and the lakes, unlike your fire-breathers. Still, we have quite a few, there's even a little colony in the sea caves near our lands.”

Castiel nods automatically, mulling over this new fact, noticing too late that he's now following Lady Daphne instead of her following him. He gives her a small smile for his distraction and steers her towards the garden of roses. The view is magnificent there, and all the bushes create a sort of natural wall against any prying eye or ear.

He had no idea the Sidhans had dragons too. Of course, there had been dragons in Eden, before the garrison's, but it was long before Castiel's birth. Nowadays, they only have stories about the great flying reptiles roaming the Edenish skies, the way brave knights killed them to save one city or another and afterwards being celebrated as heroes – no one remembered ever seeing a dragon before the arrival of the Norsemen. When the Angeles had come to Eden's shores centuries ago, they had killed all the beasts that were still dwelling in the country. Symbols of the paganism and savagery of old, the Angeles had reshaped the land and minds to their will and erased a culture that didn't sit well with their beliefs. Castiel had, foolishly perhaps, thought that the same thing had happened in Sidh. To his knowledge, the Sidhans have nearly the same religion as the Edenish; they worship the unique God, like them, have the same rites and prayers, the same Holy Book. Only some of their saints and rituals are different...why then would they let the dragons live? When they are considered manifestations of the Devil, creatures of sin? But perhaps, Castiel muses, their beliefs are still influenced by the old cults, the old religions worshipping such creatures – the Prince knows the Sidhans have no qualms about praying to water and wood spirits in addition to saints and angels. Lady Daphne sure seems less adverse to the dragons than most Edenish women.

“I was not aware of that fact.” he admits finally. “I fear there is still much I don't know the Provinces, my lady.”

It's probably a pure product of his imagination, but somehow, he feels the lingering touch of fingers against his hand. (It hurts and his hand twitches, the pain left by his captivity still present. The touch fades instantaneously.) Certainly just a fly or the breeze. A lady, even one sure she was going to be queen, wouldn't touch him like that.

“Perhaps then I could teach you, Your Royal Highness. I would love to learn more about Eden as well.”

Despite his efforts to appear natural, his smile is forced, and he can see it in the quiet confusion in Lady Daphne's eyes and the subtle distance she puts between them again. There's tension in the air again, and not of the good kind.

Because that is the whole problem, isn't it? She wants to know about Eden. Too much, in fact, for that not to be suspicious. Perhaps it's just paranoia, perhaps it's just tiredness. But he can't help but feel like this runs deeper than a simple union. This is an alliance for more than just a title and lands. Why would those Sidhans, usually so distant, suddenly want to ally themselves with the Edenish royalty? A royalty that some people in the Provinces still consider usurpers and murderers? Castiel knows that, by trying to unite their houses, Lord William hopes to gain enough power to become the new King of Sidh. Perhaps he even wishes to command the Edenish navy and army to reconquer his land, if the diplomatic way fails. And, sure, the alliance would bring the Allens power, but if anything, it would be detrimental to the Provinces. If the two countries were united under the same crown – _his_ crown, not Lord William's or Lady Daphne's – logic dictates that Sidh would become just another part of Eden and lose its independence. The Angeles don't _share_ territory, they _expend_ it. The particular case of Perdition was just a concession from an older brother to his beloved younger brother. Lord William is an ambitious man and perhaps he has conveniently forgotten this particular historical detail. Or maybe...

The new idea, repulsive and horrible (but oh so feasible) leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. He would rather not think about it but he _has_ to. He looks at Lady Daphne, at her hazel eyes and shy smile. How sweet and demure she is. How innocent. Is she really naïve? Is she just a pawn in her father's game?

Castiel may be sometimes reckless but he is no fool. He is to wear the crown of the Heavenly Kingdom of Eden, after his father. He is expected to think about politics, to see the consequences and reasons behind every tiny detail, every little word, every small gesture. He is trained to see the bigger picture, the most important facts, when every thing that tries to claim is attention is shiny and distracting. Maybe his father hadn't sent him away just to speak privately with the Lord Allen. Maybe he wanted to know whatever information Castiel could gather from his discussion with the daughter of this would-be-King. Maybe _he_ had to play the game.

The Prince throws a quick glance at their chaperones; they are far enough to give them privacy, but not so much so as to let the couple escape their vigilant eye. But Castiel doesn't want to take any risk and he gently directs Lady Daphne to a small area surrounded by rose bushes. At its centre stands a fountain in the shape of two playful cherubs, encircled by elegantly carved stone benches. There is no sound here except for the whisper of the water and the faint buzz of insects. The scenery could be considered romantic, if romanticism was the thing on Castiel's mind.

Her hand in his is soft and delicate, pale against his slightly darker skin. He holds her hand like a fragile baby bird. She seems a bit surprised, a bit shocked, but mostly she's flustered. Her eyelashes flutter against the skin of her cheeks and her lips are slightly parted in a quick inhale. His move is bold but she doesn't shy away from it. On the contrary.

She's already his. The thought should please him, flatter him, but it only leaves his stomach upset and his conscience guilty. He tries not to care.

And so he smiles, and flirts and whispers sweet nothings. He stands too close, touches her 'by accident' and pays her compliments. He listens to her every word and promises to show her the most beautiful places in his country.

And for every information he gives her about Eden, she reveals some fact on Sidh. And as he stores every new piece of information, even as he laughs to her anecdotes, he feels his heart sink into his chest.

He almost feels guilty for manipulating her this way.

 

***

 

The candles flicker in their candlesticks when he walks in the solar, creating small moving shadows against the faded tapestries at every step he takes. The old oakwood door creaks behind him before it closes on the bored expression of one the royal guards.

It is brighter and colder than the last time he came here, just a few days ago. His father probably hasn't been up here for very long, judging by the state of the fire, so small it barely gives any heat. It is still day outside, but not for very long. Nice weather could never last very long in Eden and rain had began to fall some time ago, forcing him and Lady Daphne to go back to the castle. Castiel has gone to his chambers to quickly wipe himself clean (a bath would have taken too long) and don new clothes. His headache has faded, he no longer feels dirty or sore and he has eaten a quick but copious meal; all in all, he feels far more ready to confront his father than he had been this morning.

His father stands next to the window, crown and necklace abandoned in their cases, back in his favoured thick furs rather than the ceremonial robes. His back is to Castiel, but the Prince has little doubt his father heard him enter.

The fire cracks in the chimney.

After what seems like an eternity, he finally hears his name in his father's low-pitched voice.

“Castiel.”

Castiel stands a bit straighter, reflexively, his hands joined behind his back. He tries no to wince at the small pain that runs through his fingers. He hates to think that he acts like a mere soldier standing to attention, and not like a Prince.

“Father.”

His father inclines his head a little in his direction. The light is too poor in here; he can guess his profile, but still can't see his expression clearly. He wishes he could know what his father is thinking.

“You were late.”

He stiffens.

“You did not inform me that I had to be present.” he replies, tersely. When he receives no answer in return, he adds, a little resentful: “Is this punishment for fleeing the castle the last time you sprang marriage at me?”

A small laugh escapes the King's throat. A bit wavering, almost nervous. Like someone who isn't used to laughing. When he finally turns to meet him, there is a small smile on his face and lines around his mouth and his eyes. It makes him look younger and older at the same time; but in the good sense. He seems more approachable this way. Instantly, Castiel's shoulders relax, his back loses some of its rigidity. He should probably be mad at his father for mocking him (even a little) but he can't really feel any anger towards him. King Charles gestures with a hand and a tilt of his head to the small table next to the window that one might have ambitiously called a desk.

“Come, son, sit. Have a drink with me. Have you eaten yet?”

Castiel denies offers of food (his stomach is full) but he sits into the comfortable plush chair (his father loves pillows and comfortable furniture instead of bare wood) and waits until his father is seated too and poured him a drink – sweet red wine – before he asks, diving right into the heart of the matter:

“How did the discussion with Lord William go?”

A heavy sigh escapes the King's mouth. There is a small frown on his face, like the discussion is bringing back unpleasant memories. He sips on his wine before answering.

“Well enough, I guess. He has his opinions and I have mine. They are not totally irreconcilable although they do differ greatly.” He meets his eyes, and there is something in them. Calculation. Anticipation. Expectation. “But I'm more interested in your opinion. What did _you_ think, son?” he asks, calmly putting his glass on the desk, before sitting back in his chair, hands joined as if in prayer on his belly.

This is just another test. Just another way to see if he thinks like a _king_. Castiel pauses briefly before speaking. He already chose his words carefully earlier, preparing himself for this exact moment. He does not want to disappoint his father.

“I think that the alliance has its benefits and its drawbacks and we should consider it carefully.”

King Charles smiles. “Spoken like a true diplomat. Go on.”

Castiel carefully clears the table of food and glasses and other papers until he reveals the map he knows is sitting on his father's desk. The colours are faded and it still shows the coat of arms of the Empire instead of Eden only. On this map, Eden and Perdition are still of the same colour: purple. The griffin stands there, majestic, a golden cross gripped tight in its right paw, tongue like a dagger in its beak, in the centre of the map, right between the two parts of the Empire. North of Eden lie The Provinces, in forest green, represented by the Sidhan sacred tree, and to their left, separated by the sea, Purgadóir is painted in a blue that's almost black, a giant black snake in the centre of the country. The map is old and fragile, the parchment rendered thin by too many hands, too much time, but it still serves its purpose. Castiel's finger points at the border between Sidh and Eden, drawn in a dotted line, representing the wall between the two countries.

“In the past, our family has always tried to gain the lands back in the North. If we chose to seal this alliance by marriage, we would succeed where generations of monarchs have failed and it would be a great legacy to your name.” He then points at the coast of the country, the multiple islands north and east of it, the small sea space between Purgadóir and Sidh. “The lands in the North are quite vast, naturally easily defensible and are closer to the coast of Purgadóir than Eden. Were Queen Eve to break the truce and were our armies to join forces, it would give us a definitive advantage in the event of war. From an economic point of view, we would no longer need to pay taxes for Sidhan furs and harsh winters would be easier to bear with the help of their products.”

“Very good points, I agree.” his father says before he helps himself to a handful of grapes. The light of the candles shine dimly on the silver plate.

 _And here comes the difficult part_ , thinks Castiel. _Here comes the past and the old distrust._ He takes a small breath before he speaks again.

“However, the Provinces of Sidh have always been closer to Perdition than Eden. During the Elysian war, Lord William's family, and many other nobles in Sidh chose to support Lucifer's side when he tried to claim the crown. The majority of the population still resent our family for our past invasions and wars. Moreover, the Sidhans are culturally and historically closer to Perdition than to Eden since the first populations fled there when our ancestors conquered the land. Following this reasoning, they should be more amenable to talk with Crowley rather than with us.” “But?” prompts his father. He's calm and his blue eyes are clear and fixed on Castiel. The Prince takes this as a good sign. If his father thought him wrong, he would have said so. “But Crowley is an illegitimate child of Lucifer...if he even is his son.” Castiel grimaces. Lucifer had always been lusting after power, not women. It wasn't _impossible_ that he fathered a bastard son but many in the Angeles family had doubts about Crowley's lineage. He bore no resemblance at all to Lucifer. “He has a weak claim on the crown of Perdition and an even weaker hold onto the lands and lords. General Abaddon is said to still have many followers in the dark. Lord William would take a great risk with allying himself with the likes of Crowley, who could be overthrown at any moment. Eden is a safer option. The country is stable and peaceful, the lands are vast and rich. We have a strong army, a strong navy and above all, we have _dragons_ , which have proven to be very powerful and decisive weapons.” He authorises himself a small smile. His father returns it. “And that's without taking into account the fact that we share a border whereas Perdition is across the sea and quite far from Sidh. Lord William may be a proud man, but he knows that aligning with an old enemy gives him a better chance to become king that if he were to remain loyal to old alliances. And by proposing a marriage between me and his daughter, he expects her to become Queen of both Eden and Sidh. It would be a great feat to remember for such an ambitious man.”

King Charles nods. “Yes. He did strike me as particularly...driven.” He makes the wine turn a bit in his glass before he sips on it. “The custom he founds his claim on is very old and it hasn't been used in centuries. Many would say that he isn't the rightful heir...even in his country. He has made no secret that he hopes that an alliance with us would help him gain the throne. I guess he's hoping to command our army once he marries off his daughter to you.” He snorts before he gulps another mouthful of wine.

Castiel tries to imagine Lord William giving orders to his uncle Raphael and stealing his leadership of the army and navy. It would certainly be a memorable sight.

“His daughter asked me a few questions about the dragons.” admits Castiel. His father's eyes are suddenly sharp and focussed on him. “Nothing that's too important but she was still more curious about it than would be normal, I think. She told me they have dragons in Sidh too.”

His father's eyebrows shoot up into his hairline. He almost drops the glass and fumbles with a few disrupted books on his desk.

“They do?” he asks, voice slightly higher-pitched than before.

Ah, so his father didn't know either. That's good to know. He isn't sure if it's reassuring or not, though.

“Yes, but they're not tamed, or that's what Lady Daphne told me.” Castiel hesitates and lowers his head a little. Should he...should he tell his father his supposition? It's still a wild theory, there's nothing to support it besides a healthy dose of mistrust. Perhaps too much mistrust, some would say, when harboured for someone he could end up married to very soon. But still, he's _supposed_ to think this way, he should share his thoughts with his father...no? He bites his lower lip before he adds. “I think....I think they would like our help to tame them. Maybe even...”

A knock at the door interrupts him. Both blue stares turn to the wood panel before they meet each other again. His father's postures stiffens and the mask of the King slips back on his features. Castiel sits back into his chair, back straight once again.

“Who is it?” asks his father after clearing his throat.

There's a second of silence. Followed by some muttering.

“Lord Gabriel asks for an audience, Your Royal Majesty.” a guard finally answers behind the door.

His father's shoulders relax and after an exchange of eye rolls with Castiel, he sighs a “come in”. Which he of course has to repeat louder because the guard behind the door seems to be a bit deaf. “Oh, let me pass, you muttonhead. I'm his nephew!” comes a muffled and irritated voice through the wood panel before it finally opens.

The atmosphere in the room immediately lightens, almost like the sun suddenly decided to explode into the solar. Gabriel is all smiles and dashing entry, as always, and his presence seem to lift the mood instantaneously. He's changed into simpler clothes since this afternoon, but he has retained the green-gold pattern he favoured today. He quickly salutes them by moving his straight hand from his right temple in a quick forward gesture (probably a habit he has picked up from a foreign land; nobody does that in Eden) and rejoins them near the window.

“Hello again, uncle. Cassie. Everything's good, I hope?” he asks, while dragging another chair to the desk, unceremoniously dropping on it at the edge of the table, right in the middle between the King and the Prince.

It's only because King Charles is frankly afraid of his older sister that he doesn't comment on Gabriel's offhandedness and breech of all possible protocols in just the last sixty seconds. How Lady Naomi could have a child such as Gabriel is still a complete mystery to Castiel. And he has known Gabriel most of his life.

The King nods slowly. He points to the map Castiel just left and answers:

“I think so. But we should talk about...”

 

***

 

For two hours they speak about it. The Allens, the Sidhan war of succession, the state of their alliances in the region, their knowledge about dragons, the army, the past. They discuss every possible angle (or at least it feels like it to Castiel who is feeling the beginning of a headache) of the question “do we accept this alliance or not?”. From King Charles and Prince Castiel's point of view, they are still far from a resolution and they lack too many elements to take a decision in an immediate future. Gabriel doesn't seem to think along the same lines. Feet propped upon a makeshift foot-stool mostly comprised of books (to the King's great horror), a bag of sweets on his belly and nuts supposedly covered in salt and honey in his mouth, he says, all the while chewing loudly on his food:

“The plan is simple. Marry the girl, get the lands, get an heir or two and get rid of the father.”

The King looks scandalised at his nephew's suggestion. He doesn't say it out loud but his expression screams clearly _“how dare you?”_. Gabriel just shrugs and mumbles a _“what?”_. King Charles heaves a long sigh. It's hopeless.

The Prince merely rolls his eyes at the simplistic approach. Nothing is ever that _simple_ with nobles. Especially ones with a mile-wide streak of ambition.

“I think Lord William may have thought along the same lines too, you know.” replies Castiel, a bit snidely. He's on his third cup of wine now and he's beginning to get hungry. He should probably stop drinking before he gets too snappish. Maybe.

“Then it's all a matter of who's faster!”

“I'm not going to kill an innocent man!”

“Who said anything about killing? You could just...toss him on a deserted island.” Faced with Castiel's sceptical expression, he adds: “Oh please, he's hardly innocent. He's got a reputation on the battlefield, that Lord. You don't want that man for a father-in-law breathing on your neck all the damn time.”

It's this moment that the King chose to interrupt their conversation. Before its gets too bad or, God forbid, too ridiculous. The two cousins are already too riled up. His tone is calm and imposing respect when he says:

“We'll need to discuss it further. Let's not make any hasty decisions. How is your dragon training, Castiel?”

Taken aback by the abrupt change of topic, Castiel flounders a bit. Chastised, he drops his eyes and pinches the hem of his shirt, as if the cloth contained the answer to the question. “I...hm...good? Good, I think?”

“You took your lesson with Captain Winchester, is it not? Did you learn anything good?” “Mostly history, Sire.” replies Castiel, truthfully.

King Charles frowns.

“History?” “It's difficult to learn about the physical aspect of dragon training when Captain Winchester is in chains.” quips the son.

King Charles waves his hand in a dismissive gesture. “Yes, yes, I know that, but he talked about theory two days ago. Not _history_. Learning their history won't teach how to ride, to my knowledge. I don't want Winchester filling your head with pagan stories.”

Castiel is ready to defend Dean's unorthodox method, to defend his honour (as if _he_ were the damsel in distress this time and not Castiel) when Gabriel interrupts them, after popping a new honeyed fruit in his mouth.

“Their storiesare interesting, uncle. The Norsemen think very differently from us. Teaching history is not a bad idea to begin your training. _I_ began that way too and I think it was the same for Victor. It helps you put things in perspective. The way they see dragons in their stories shapes a lot of their behaviour towards them. They don't hate them, they don't think they're evil. They just fear and respect them. And when they kill them, it's because they're dangerous, plunder their lands and eat their food. Not because they think they're Satan incarnate.”

Two pairs of befuddled blue eyes turn towards him. Gabriel looks mildly offended at their disbelieving stares.

“What? I'm a dragonrider _too_ , or did you conveniently forget that fact?”

Castiel shakes his head. It's sometimes difficult to remember that Gabriel is their expert on diplomacy and is therefore far more knowledgeable in foreign affairs than the rest of them. Castiel suspects he took on that job just to have an excuse to stay out of court and going on trips all the time. And about that...the Prince narrows his eyes towards his cousin:

“Speaking of which...I thought you were going abroad? And that was why you couldn't be my teacher?”

He doesn't put it above Gabriel to use an excuse just to skip his teaching duties. Gabriel never taught him the Sidhan language despite promising his father he would, after all. Well, he never taught him _polite_ words in Sidhan anyway.

“I _was_ going abroad but the Allens came here before I could even set sail! Pretty impatient, that Lord.”huffs Gabriel.

Castiel arches an eyebrow to his cousin's obvious displeasure. So...it seemed like the possible alliance wasn't as new and sudden that Castiel initially thought. He would have to search a bit more into that. In time. He crosses his arms on his chest.

“Does this means you're going to teach me, now?”

His cousin pops a new sweet into his mouth. Castiel can't help but think he's stalling. When his cousin uncrosses his feet (and after his father quickly checks that his books are intact) and puts them to the carpet, he's suddenly serious. To say that Castiel is apprehensive would be an understatement.

“Well, I'd love to, dear cousin, but frankly, I don't know what I can teach you.” Gabriel shrugs. “I mean, my dragon's all about sneaking in without being seen and spying, not outright attack. And your dragon? Totally not sneaky.” A snort and a pensive frown. “I think Jo's dragon is the closest thing to your beast. She'd probably be a better teacher for you. Though I'd recommend you learn a bit more theory first. Riding that spiky thing is really not the first thing you should do.”

Castiel nods silently. Yes. He promises to consider his cousin's words before he goes back to training. His father chooses that moment to get them out of the solar. Night will be falling soon and they are all hungry, they should go dine into the hall. No one comments on the grumbling sound of Gabriel's stomach.

Too much sweets.

 

***

 

It's finally two days later that Castiel realises he has missed the lesson planned with Dean's brother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...I'm not dead and this fic is not abandoned? If there are still people following this, I apologise for the long delay and the lack of action here. The next chapters will focus on dragon training, I promise. And I'm sorry if there are sometimes strange turns of phrase or expressions that may seem odd: English is not my mother tongue.
> 
> For the political aspect of this chapter, I draw my inspiration from the Great Cause and the Auld Alliance; as you may have guessed, if in this universe Eden is England and Perdition is France, the Provinces of Sidh are Scotland. (I chose to write Sidh instead of Sìth because of...well, Star Wars.) Like for Eden and Perdition, I swapped the traditional colours of Ireland (Purgadóir) and Scotland (Sidh) in this universe, so Sidh is represented by the colour green and Purgadóir by dark blue. Again, even if I try to be as historically accurate as possible, this is a _fantasy_ universe, not a retelling of past events. I also do not wish to be disrespectful to Scottish history/folklore or offend any Scots (or English/French/Irish people, for that matter). Castiel's opinion does not reflect my own.
> 
> PS: Kudos and comments are an author's salary ;)


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